Sunday, November 12, 2017

You Revise Me


Like a wise look
on a sleeping infant,
you revise me.

Old ideas forsake –
dry, brittle – break
like thin potato chips.

New opinions bloom
like patterns
in a loom.

A baby’s face –
potato chips –
a tapestry:

similes
mix
unapologetically.

Regard a few
of your bewildering
effects on me.




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