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                ‘like a piece of ice on a hot stove
                 the poem must ride on its own melting’

                                modern libraries there are
                fewer poetry books

                                came up to Woolwich
                to find a voice but couldn’t find what I was looking for
                                wandering the streets
                                I was trying too hard
                                even before I got here

                                              I could
                where I am and let the heat from my own poem
                                              slip and melt
                                                              as it will …

                thank you Robert Frost – it seems there was a purpose after all
                                in coming to Woolwich and
                                sitting in the library where I
                                might never have chanced
                                upon the anthology of 20th
                                Century Poets (looking for
                                Sylvia anyway), it’s just that

                                I can’t see under my own nose
                                for all my searching and hope





20th century wormhole: titanic
being & doing wormhole: no biggie:
books wormhole: the declensions of constant possibility throughout times
looking wormhole: tag cloud poem VI – anyone’s eyes
poetry & writing wormhole: there
searching wormhole: the Buddha head in an antique shop
seeing wormhole: cold wind
streets wormhole: movement
Sylvia Plath wormhole: the early morning of the sixties
Woolwich wormhole: letters to Mum I – a walk / and talk