On Writing

Poem 225 – Eight Ball

Eight Ball

on a whim
I palm the magic
eight ball
ask: will I ever
get an agent?

the rush of hot hope
the tightening of desperation
makes my torso smaller

blue bubbled liquid
reveals the white
pyramid of magic
in the small
window of
the ball’s belly:

FOCUS & ASK AGAIN

2 thoughts on “Poem 225 – Eight Ball

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