Two poems written, one redrafted, and almost all of my books marked for work. A very productive evening indeed. This is my nineteenth poem for National Poetry Writing Month, and brings me right back on schedule.
(an erasure poem adapted from Aubrey's Brief Lives*)
He made dissections of loss before a bullet
from a great gun made dead amongst the dead
And he awoke upon himself for warmth
after high sun, or wind, had made his age
And he would sit on the lead roof.