image represent in Mss, poem by John Barr


Since I start things on the margin
–cocktail napkins, cancelled checks,
timetables trying to be reliable–
and since I save it all, I know
there are good words buried and lost
in those fat accordion files, words
that sounded good at the time,
that I promised to get back to,
rhyme trains that never left Grand Central,
monikers that chattered like silverware
at 30,000', sounds struck
sheer of sense–coin of a realm–
from a currency of air, pronounced
like blessings on an express world,
soul puffs, plain mistakes,
angels, working definitions of.

John Barr / from The Hundred Fathom Curve 

Share via
Copy link