Rosmarie Waldrop Two Prose Poems

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You might grasp at. For safety. A point of view agreeing. Like a verb, having to, with whatever you do. But disturbing nothing. Or in rocky terrain only. When the dark by any other name. Would washing your hands help you with. Illusions pale as, but contingent on, the roar. In the ear. When you talk about winter, your refusal. To talk in my language. It helps, even if it distracts, to go with nouns. To have that choice. Even bold ones like "love."


Believing it can be met. To talk in the wind, or to. In spite of cold fingers, this need so exhausting. That more. And more than necessary. One does not use nouns. So I ask myself when even the president. Though the weather turned. The trucks heading north. Taking up the road, the trucks. Heading north, whereas writing. Makes it bearable. Grammar so exciting to put together. Or time. Fumbling with. The need to say "I". Half-heartedly. Pronouns can be so mistaken. So without.

This material is © Rosmarie Waldrop
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