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Baitfish #1


"Baitfish" is my term for a snippet of poetry that doesn't feel completed. It could grow into more or could be made into something with the judicious use of an editing knife. Here is one:


smoke drifts across the valley

over vineyards & fields

burned blond. Where ponds used

to live, dark patches like bruises.

Autumn hangs of the shoulder

of those who sweated the summer,

worried about rain. Now rocks

too hot to touch, even restless

twitchy lizards seek shadow.


I encourage anyone to borrow a line or image. Make something better. Make something new. Or just make fun of this poet for a clumsy grasp of a lost day.

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