A Hundred Poems – C (White Space Detours)
I ride the path by mouth and nothing more!
The pen is dried and tears have taken a road by south.
Who should feed my vagrant words they starve at day
and flee by night!
And detours, forked by white Spaces and pregnant pauses
give birth to tiny doubts upon my ink!
I watch the children drown there.
A fountain in the square of town is where I dip my quill,
and the Crier shouts,
“Oyez, Oyez, Oyez!”
Remember all the good souls!
:: 1979 ::