October 5, 2011

an epilogue in prose, moreso (lights a lovely mile), it is
that I am wondering, merely
whether this unease is that I have not written poetry.

it’s all been prose, these past few whiles, all my thinkings, and the constant surfeit of emotions has not been- relieved, wildly swept into colour and motion and things I barely understand. Purged, drained, plonked on the page to understand later. Felt, more than seen, first. There’s a certain sense you have to make in prose. One thing follows the next. Poetry- is different.

Perhaps this restlessness is that I miss writing in something that is not prose.

(whose smile
‘s not wrung, see you- )

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