I don't usually write at midnight, but sometimes I get an idea at three in the morning.

Monday, May 21, 2012

A Golden Message: a found poem


Quickly now, little bird.

Rescue the gardens.


In the morning, picture perfect lawns question:

“Where have you gone?”


It all ends in quarantine:

A clock.

A piece of the sofa.

A family of rats, hiding.

Hiding.

Hiding.

 
*taken from “Little Bird” by Imogen Heap

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