A frog makes a corkscrew croak, keeps warm, sings
A friend’s mix tape in the garage, where men go, to hide
A picture of a writer on a rocker with a notepad and pen,
threads pulled from his pocket, he turned the tip of his pen
into a bird’s beak, held it against its will, then let it go.
I took the words and typed them into my computer and they looked back at me:
Bent pen tips, white pigment, bird’s beak…
trying to ice skate on paper, stand up and sail.
Writing is like figure skating, like learning another language, like falling down and opening your mouth, not sure what’s coming out.