Morning reading.


Each morning
I am waking poetry;
you read my body
with your hands.
Hear the shape of my words
tactile,
deciding
which form I am today.

Sonnet, ballad, free verse, ode?

Bringing me coffee you climb
back into
warmth written
over a night
of dreaming. Reading me
a little longer
you, reluctant to
bookmark me
until day’s end.

Haiku, cento, duma?

If I am foreign in the morning
you can tell right away;
epic in Arabic,
Japanese pastoral.
Unwilling to rise
to the keyboard I am lost
in words
not meaningless to me.

Couplet, cinquain?

But more often
I leave bed to
sit here. Not a poem
now,
writing myself out
instead.
Wishing more than one person
could read me so
I wouldn’t have the
trouble of
transcription.

A found poem frequently,
but
never, ever
concrete.

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