Magic
A life lived in poetry is 10:08 pm
on Monday night with my journal and pen
and a restless, racing mind
over tired shoulders that carry the weight
of baggage I can’t seem to release. A life lived in poetry is the alchemy of this,
the transformation of dying into living,
of rumination into red ink,
of ragged breath
into lines and rows that form
on the page,
and create just a little order,
but not too much,
for the chaos within. A life lived in poetry means moments
