Constellations

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Give me paper and pen,
I’ll show you my soul’s blood
cast across infinity,
laying its claim to those
coordinates and crossroads
of me among the stars,
the beats and melodies
like prickmarks on a drum,
but the constellation
will be as alien to you
as it threatens to be for me,
the cadence and appeal
as fleeting as summer traffic
steeped in discouragement
like a washcloth adrift
in an endless, breathing sea.

(dtn)

About today’s poem:
Lately I’ve been reading Stephen King’s On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft. In it, he says that writing is “actual telepathy in action.” As this blog will, I hope, one day be read by my daughter, this idea is spot on for me, and this poem is how I imagine my end of the telepathic dance taking shape.

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