A Poem: I Don’t Honk So

I mean I don’t think so. Because every time I open a big fat mouth of mine, it’s like an aberrant keyboard making thistles out of whistles and crow out of Velcro.

There was a time when speaking could be as clear as a moving cloud over a frozen lake, the horizontal sun as quiet and elucidating as a spruce in shadow showing its shadow. Then it is dark.

This article appears in December 2013.