No matter how hard I scrub my hands the lists won’t wash off:
The scene will wash away when sealed with water,
Transparent are the ears which do not listen
Attention to the truth showing the half side of one’s face
Sucking at the lips, a biting of the tongue, be a star
Within the universe.
Traits of the nose, the eyes and the arms, the
Swinging of the legs, the shoulder bare
A swarm, twisted, swirling a poetic irony.
Task master in the corner, a jar that
Holds a key.
Scraping sounds from outside, a distraction it
Was only a matter of time before I
Rushed toward the mountain, to avoid
The cut, paper falls between the fingers
I was lucky not to fall through, the list.
Verdalibre, Philosopher, Creative Writing
Ad infinitum, One Writer’s Progress in Poetry, J. Spencer August 2018