What is the woodpecker searching for as (s)he hops along the limb from trunk to tip, up, click, up, click, up, click, then back again, hopping along the bark for . . . for what? a home?
I sat and smoked and wondered the same about me, now hopping along the line from "n" to end: click, up, click, up, click, up, and back again, hopping along the keyboard for . . . for what? a poem? All this up and clicking, it is not an occupation; more desperate than a hobby, more taxing than a prayer: why now does (s)he fly from here and leave this tree, my sight? why do I stay at my tree, long ago clicked down into a desk? The cars along the street drive past without a second glance; the poem, like the cigarette, comes to an end without an answer. _______________________________________________ Five7Five mailing list [EMAIL PROTECTED] http://www.pairlist.net/mailman/listinfo/five7five
