Beth Camp Historical Fiction

Saturday, April 05, 2008

#4 Poetry should zing . . .

Poetry should zing between
each line dance or sing what
might you do if words slid right
up or down or evenside
across a screen image-wide
a missile, melting clock, lightening struck,
spring rain smatters, a cardinal flits again
from grass to tree. All in all,
the steady oak still
holds the Mississippi fast, a turning, rolling,
muddy, willful, rain-swollen rush
of water-song.

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