Poet seeks editor


I wish I were a waterproof writer. 

My words get saturated too easilly

by the viscous liquids that pour from my body;

tears fall on my vowels, blood sullies my verbs,

and seawater creates eddies through my muddied thoughts.

If I could don a rain slicker

or those nice tight rubbers that slip over my boots,

maybe my words could be saved

from the unwanted deluge

that washes them clean of their intentions,

blurring them into not-quite-what-I-said

or sometimes melting them entirely

into an unsalvageable goo which renders all lost.

Maybe at least I need a waterproof editor,

wrapped up carefully in a full body dry suit

who can wade into the inky colloidal suspension

of fear and fluids to pluck out the flotsam and jetsom

and place them gingerly on an island to dry

and reform in the warm summer sun.


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