76/365 - 80/365

Driving to work I realized a stronger approach to a new poem—but it rests in the car. Locked up; house alarm set; myself lying in bed. Tried reconstructing key words—but the phrases fall flat. I forget how resolution was reached—if it was reached at all.

Over the weekend Dad and I drank black-and-tans at a pseudo pub which lies between our houses. Mom drank cold tea.

Another moment.
Night slowly uncoils itself.
I bite on my nails.

Fading rapidly. All of a sudden—the sense of sleep floods over, intensely. Earlier an idea shaped in my head, but the cat jumped on the bed and howled. I lost all notion of my thoughts. Perhaps the phrase dealt with poetry. Or school.

I forget how my travelogue essay finished. If it even finished. In a few days, it is crucial to re-read it, start cycling it out to journals

Before the full sunrise
damp windows bead with water.
Mosquitoes dance close.

Three sets of rejection notes arrived this week. Which means this Friday I’ll have more opportunities to mail out. One journal included an encouraging note. She liked the poem regarding Atif apparently—but not enough sentiment to accept it.

Five weeks of silence:
no news, no comments; but now
rejects come roaring.

Slow ache receding
from my right arm—painfully
slow—testing patience.

Driving home from work.
At a stuttering red light
one small feather falls.


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