with practice a memory like a voice can be thrown into any unsuspecting object stop each thought is a cone that depends on its opening at both ends stop I need a few ants to appreciate the sugar-white of bed sheets stop unfolding the paper crane won’t undo its allegiance to sequence stop I mark my room with all five of my senses but soon it is strange again stop |
Rusty Morrison
<!–About the poet–>
Boston Review
November / December 2007
Poetry Daily
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