142/365 - 146/365

On the pond’s surface,
balanced between reflection
and self. A wasp rests.

No words for tonight—
my vocabulary fails.
Sleep consumes my thoughts.

Sinuses clog up
throat, ears, nose. I drown in phlegm.
Fever burning tight.

Considering the fractured approach again for poetry. Say 10 or 15 haiku loosely bound by subject. In this case: crows, blackbirds, grackles. Whereas my earlier tanka project consisted of individual poems, this flock of haiku would be a collective thought—a grouped series of verses.

Or a new approach entirely—five stanzas of five lines composed of five syllables (5 x 5 x 5) under a common binding title. In this manner the individual poem would at least tread into the territory of a secondary collection, a part two within the manuscript. And still require some craft and experimentation.

Grading more papers.
Watching the clock shift forward.
While thinking of crows.

A foul mood rises,
from the pit of my stomach,
ascending the spine.


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