It goes like this, some days.
A ghazal gone wrong, a nap overdone.
A haiku with too many syllables,
a doll with too many joints.
As March draws to a close, the warmth
of a wave seems so far away.
It crashes softly, ice in its veins.
Can you hear me? I'm dancing in the
rubble, filled with words.
They protect me and they weigh me down,
sublime and discrete.
If you had to pick a poison,
what would it be?
Anne Margaret Landgraf, © 2011
