After I ate the poet
I left the shells
piled high on a plate
translucent-pink,
done just right —
and after all that
picking out the meat,
it looked like more
than when I started,
once it was done.
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Categories: poetry
Bill Pearse
Writing is learning to see in the dark
This morning I spoke to a colleague as he was pulling his motorcycle out of his shed. He told me he was biking to Kentucky as a sort of pilgrimage to the grave of Thomas Merton. He’s bringing his daughter along. “Very Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance,” I said. “I’m bringing a copy along,” he replied.
Might be time to tackle that one again.
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Yeah why not? Things change as we do it seems. Give it a go and report back why don’t you? You go first, I’m sure it will be fine.
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