poetry texts, poem archive at plagiarist.com

Busy, with an idea for a code, I write
signals hurrying from left to right,
or right to left, by obscure routes,
for my own reasons; taking a word like writes
down tiers of tries until its secret rites
make sense; or until, suddenly, RATS
can amazingly and funnily become STAR
and right to left that small star
is mine, for my own liking, to stare
its five lucky pins inside out, to store
forever kindly, as if it were a star
I touched and a miracle I really wrote.


Submitted by Venus

Added: 2 Jun 2002 | Last Read: 12 May 2008 1:22 PM | Viewed: 14601 times

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