September #17

what day is it?
i can't remember.
other people's verses
are echoing strangely in my mind,
pushing pounding out thoughts,
my thoughts.
i cannot think
i cannot write
i am consumed
by this other.
who knew poetry
could devour?

April #4

I write poetry,
and I don't know why.
I'm not some pretentious wit,
I keep it to myself,
and I don't know if I'm any good -
though practice does improve.

Sometimes I have those
flashes
those spontaneous outflows of feeling
that Wordsworth loved.
But it's not just that.
It's just,
perhaps,
the beauty of words themselves.