I promised myself I wasn’t going to post whole poems anymore, but this one is so short. I can’t help myself. From now on I’ll try to select snippets so as to tempt your taste buds.
But for now …
when I’m alone,
I put the tip of the sheet
into my mouth. It’s this primal
thing, this pressing of the edge
into my very self.
The things I do when I’m alone, all the “sometimes.”
What is this connection with words? What is it about reading symbols on a page that moves me? I’ve said, about a book, “I devoured it,” meaning I read it fast. Even so, it can go deep “into my very self.”
Sometimes things stick long after a story is done, certain details. I just finished Hugh Howey’s trilogy: “Wool,” “Shift,” and “Dust.” I’d read “Wool” a couple of years ago, but I couldn’t get the image of the silo out of my mind, the porters, the cleanings.
Reading poetry is more like — I imagine — eating at the The French Laundry restaurant, where you are served many small portions, one after another. Just a taste.