Some poems grow in negative space
Others in molecular chaos
This one came in quarantine
As obtuse phrases rose in the night
Like “methane bubbles” from the ocean floor
“Vacuums of the mind” filled up
With “tiny metaphors”
That crept into unoccupied “corners of the heart”
And there bred “cultures of imagination”
That fermented into sonnets
As lyrical songlines slid cautiously into melodies
Offered by blackbirds singing in the dead of night
A poet’s always waiting for this moment to arrive
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Mark Dowie is a retired rodeo cowboy, investigative historian, songwriter and widely published professional poet living on the outskirts of Willow Point California.