Understand
To understand the novel
one should read, as well,
his poems. The words are there,
those very same words, leaping
over each other on their
varied ways. Some come
when called. Some will run
from the extended hand, knowing
not what we conceal.
Look, it is empty.
Look, I innocent come
to roll these pebbles between
blind fingers, to know what canticles
formed the day. A poet?
I know only the novels,
reciting in the dusk.
Stephen Brooke ©2025
I had a specific writer in mind when I composed this, but that doesn't matter.
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