a found poem Imagine sitting for hours at a slant desk, copying on rough parchment with a sharpened quill, day after lonely day. Of course you’d be tempted to write in the margins: “That’s a hard page and a weary work to read it.” “New parchment, bad ink; I say nothing more.” “The ink is thin.” “I am very cold.” “Saint Patrick of Armagh, deliver me from writing.” “Thank God it will soon be dark.” “Oh, my hand.” “Now that…
Barbara CrookerSeptember 1, 2016