Creative Writing

For some reason far past the power of rationality to discover eye wanted to know how to know where to put the line breaks in my poems. Eye told them this and they smiled and said well, if we only knew that. But there had to be more to the business of line breaks than a shrug of the shoulders, eye thought; through the whole conversation eye was waving my hands around and the cuticle split and bled all over my thumb. When crowds of words float on the surface of things, going perhaps in some direction, like headlights before dawn, those born to strange sights might catch still in one’s eye a hard sharp-pointed star that makes one

unreasonably vigilant, but the poet made no mention of it, sir. Once told that eye is a deep root and rhizome it seems eye is for ego and easier to go back quietly through high tawny fields. Eye eye eye is what they say here, or I eye I. (What are you doing now? Averting my I’s, oh Lord. Well don’t.) At Patriarch’s Pond we met a stranger who invited us to the John Donne Pub and said he’d met Roger Waters just there at Patriarch’s Pond. “He’s very arrogant, you know. He’s very arrogant.”