I've forgotten what poetry looks like; how it feels, how the taste of it dissolves on my tongue.
I sat for hours in a cafe, staining my right index finger black, scratching through fragments of lines and words--each scratch more deep, more evidence to my un-evolved relationship with language.
I was so assured, once, of my place, and now questions, ever open-ended, fall from ledges in their eagerness. Unanswered.
Two and a half hours later, with the darkening of night, the cafe turned into couples at tables and light laughter over Ella Fitzgerald, and on two separate pages, the beginning and end of a very short, meager poem--a memory, a monument, a moment.