Could not help myself with that Darwishian. Sounds squishy.
Here is my assumptions/thoughts on poetry
The tingle on the back of my neck--
needles down my back.
Never the word. Always the
image as first seen by the eye
What's lost from brain to wrist. Jolts at the
scarred bone in my wrist
An inexplicable need to write--energized
from that first tingle.
Images. Images. Images. Flashes.
Never one color.
Infinite? Infiinty.
~~
Keep in mind this is an sandy-rough draft.
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