The Process

Cross-stiched

outside sounds

double the day’s


indoor confusion.

How to untwine

noise, to see.


There’s the bay,

highway slashed

beneath; water


a weaker shade

of gray than this

momentary sky’s


widening bruise.

The page turns

on the table, bare


despite all

I thought was

written there.


Joseph Massey

Quelle: www. poets.org

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