For a time I wrote poems on the subway my eyes were bright and green
I grinned and spoke in crystal tongue and wrote what little I'd seen
I didn't see what I thought I saw as the seed sees not the ground
but perennials in summer fields will watch the bloomers assume
that photos keep their colour when instead they leave no room
for pictures on a dreaming wall lifted out of you
now I sit writing poems on the subway a duller shade of blue.
It feels like every time I come back here it's been a long time. I get excited when I receive an email saying someone enjoyed something I wrote, and it makes me wish I wrote more. This is a poem about just that.