[Here’s a poem I have been trying to write for a long time. I once read that the American short story writer Raymond Carver decided a story was “done” when he wanted to put back in the commas he had just taken out. I feel that way today about this. So maybe it is.]


It’s a wooden word.

Added to our language

Like a barrow.


A blade word.

Opening us up

From sharp to hollow.


A lost word.

Totally out of love

With tomorrow. 


A liquid word. 

Quick, in every tree,

In every farrow.