Writing Is Knowing



The world is a word
between thought
and expression.
The moment just before
the silence breaks,
a pregnant pause
inducing wonder.


I write with passion,
out of impulse.
Nothing but blank lines
behind my words.
You can’t take them
literally, they’re already
spoken for.


The poet tries
to lighten up:
“The beaten path
I have a way
of getting off
so follow me
before we’re lost.”


I read somewhere an apple
needs to be eaten
to know it’s an apple.
So it is with the page.
It needs filling out
to realize how
empty words feel.


There’s an art
to crossing out
or scribbling in
the margins.
The writer even
grocery lists.

c b snoad

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