127/365 - 131/365

Inside the lamp’s globe
a collection of dead moths
rest, drowning in light.

a gold epiphany flies
among grey sparrows.

Once around the pond
our conversation ceases.
The sky threatens rain.

Wandering bookshelves.
Hands fingertipping volumes.
Sorting through the titles.

Ricky found an international market stocked with Middle Eastern foods and East European desserts; stalls of figs, dates, broad bean stalks, large fava beans, bags of poppy seed, fresh warm pita, numerous spices—a poem lies here somewhere, a song of diversity.

There are days when I feel invisible to the poetry community. Even today after calculating the poems published this year, I cannot seem to build an audience or steady readers for any of my poems. I keep reaching out to other writers, other editors—and all I get is silence.

Another new series of rejections fall into the mailbox this week. More negation to contend with—and I send out more material once more.

Women in burkas
among red pomegranates,
between market stalls.


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