Poetry and Prose from the Center for Writers
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by SARAH COLE
Scenic Route
Daylight dances on the surface,
orange and yellow play well together.
The green elders watch so closely
as you and I walk along the edge.
A crisp coolness
loiters in the distance.
The slight drizzle blows
where the wind tells it.
Hushed words,
as those birds fly above.
Singing; they know something.
Do we even know?
We embark on conformity,
ending miles apart.
Changing with the seasons,
just like those leaves.
I AM A Fragment
She says my punctuation has a mind of its own.
Whatever happened to the freedom
to throw a period to second base;
when you know someone, somewhere
is holding a comma for ransom
and I only have 50 cents?
Claiming she’s a doctor of books,
but can only maintain routine
through deaf hands, muted thoughts,
swatting flies and crossing T’s.
I’m not sure why she’s speaking Japanese,
when everyone knows I failed Spanish.
She disregards that I am a one-of-a-kind
genius among the average bullshitter.
For I, am an English major,
and will unintentionally place punctuation
where the gods tell me.
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