Sunday is a good day for reading poetry, wouldn’t you agree?
Sometimes poetry comes in the form of images, sometimes in words. Here is from the beginning of Sleeping Faces, by Robert Bly
Tonight the first fall rain washes away my sly distance.
I have decided to blame no one for my life.
This water falls like a great privacy.
Letters sink into the desk,
The desk sinks away, leaving an intelligence
Slowly learning to talk of its own suffering.
The muttering of thunder is a gift
That reverberates in the roof of the mouth.
sketcher, reader, writer