Creation


My mind can’t speak

But my heart can listen


A feeling has no form

Yet it takes shape


Nothing can be born

Before it has gestated


What would a premature

Poem look like?


Concise you say,  but finished


It is the aborted ones I am

Interested in and there have

Been many


Often cut short and lost forever

Because it is so easy to erase


Sylvia Plath had no such

Convenience all her unwanted’s

Were stored in a shoe box under

The bed, where they were conceived.