Like all lake side pebbles, stones
I become restless. The sea
is not from here and I am not from the sea
though I know what blue is and
waves that shatter the shore, a slow
shatter of my smooth surface
of the sky that cannot help
but grin back. It is a hopeless
thing, this touch of water
and air. Sometimes I wish
I could float out, far toward an
island that I can never see
and speak some language
so distant and cunning
that I could never get back.
This is what happens when I start reading about postmodern poetry for my comps. I totally start writing poems. It is like when I read about pedagogy, I totally start revising my own. Hopefully all this work pays off as much as any type of note taking would, which of course I am also doing.