And all are born right ———————————-now, all the poems, born of their small poem-eggs, salt-grey, and all begin their turtlish crawl —————————————–toward —————————————————–the sea, ———except ——————–this one. This poem fumbles, sits up, puzzled, a frown in his messy fluff.And the sea, the instinct, the voice of tradition seeps up the sandy trail her siblings leftContinue reading “Godefroy Dronsart: ALL POEMS END IN THE SEA”
where writing shifts and spills across boundaries
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