T.S. Eliot called poetry a "raid on the inarticulate." You can never get something perfect, but you do come close sometimes. I write about what I know. And that is Cape Ann, Maine, quarries, wildlife, beaches, coastline, children, the march of time. I hope you enjoy my words.
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Taking Down the Crib
Everything that came together comes apart.
The screws, the bolts, the springs,
So carefully placed just a few years ago.
There's a faint scent of baby pee and vomit,
Mercifully offset by something sweet that speaks
Of powder and bubble baths.
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