Like the itch that lingers after shortcuts
taken through growth of stinging nettles,
or the reek of bar-smoke on a jacket collar
forgotten in my wardrobe
or being brought from sleep
to calls from reclusive foghorns,
that solitary letter
at the bottom of my mailbox
with my name and address scribbled
by a hand, I’d known, a hand I’d held,
brought back scenes of sunsets
sitting side by side, silent, sensing
that whatever has begun will also end.
Today Ingrid is asking us to write a poem using only concrete nouns, subject matter and imagery at dVerse. Not sure if I got it right, but at least I tried.
November 2, 2021