American Sentence LXIV
A boy boards the train, presses a scrap of paper in the poet’s hand.
20 thoughts on "American Sentence LXIV"
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A boy boards the train, presses a scrap of paper in the poet’s hand.
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Love the picture this paints, and the mystery.
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Magic.
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Lovely – and the rhythm keeps ys chugging along!
Y’all’s wonderful comments keep me chugging along!
Mmmm, I love the mystery hidden in the poet’s hand!
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Mysterious and cool.
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Nice. I cam see how this could work in a narrative sequence of seventeen syllable sentences.
Glad you can, Tom!
I love how we are left to ponder two questions: Who is the poet, the boy or someone else? And what is written on the paper?
Thanks! I, too, am pondering as I ride alongside these passengers in this train going somewhere.
Now we know where the poet gets her inspiration!
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Oh! Yes ❤️
Pam, There is a story of traveling beyond the watchtower, i can’t remeber now how it goes but it goes something like this poem.
“a scrap of paper”
Thank you.
Thanks, Coleman! Scrap of paper was a gift floating in my head until I found who needed to carry it and to whose hand it needed to be in!
Oh! I went back and read them all— so wonderful, what a terrific project! This one has me on the edge of my seat….
You are so kind to do so! Thank you!