Three Poets



We sit on the screened porch
in the dusk,
glasses of Prosecco in easy reach,
earnestly discussing word choice,
two of us musing on
how we might spend
a half hour or more toying
with a single word
or phrase,
searching for the perfect intent,
a definite music
and temper
in the language.
Another laments his inability
to convey romantic passion,
how whenever sex manifests
in his work
he feels compelled to make
each encounter sad
or awkward.
We sit quietly for a beat,
eating our strawberries
and thinking about where poems
come from
and where they go,
how some novelists
write whole books
in which the prose
read like verse,
words resting ripe on the page,
as succulent
as the berries on our tongues.


Julie Ayers
NaPoWriMo Day 11



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