Monday, April 19, 2021

NaPoWriMo, Day Nineteen, Poem Sixteen





The Shape

Own shadow
startles 

jostled when
you think

it's about
to jump you.

turning
crouched troll

in dark
and light

no longer
hiding

sneaking
up to what.



James Joyce's saffron touched
love letters are up to his relatives

to handle. He got away scot-free,
let his yearnings jut out

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