So here it is, my poetry,
the clobber of transformation
that I cart around with me
so I can see things anew,
so I can feel the dust mote
of inspiration falling,
expanding in my head,
first into an image,
then into a line,
a precious line
that tumbles out
and leads to another
and then another
until they are all falling,
trailing colours behind them
that mix with my tears as they do.
DF. W-S 2005 XXXIX/I
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