The smellfungus among us complains of unpeeled bananas—he doesn’t understand bisecting lines.
He lives in a network of uncluttered pages—waits for the flood and the clutch of the ham-fisted smile.
Read his body language—why don’t you? You haven’t done anything wrong.
I wring my hands of this.
“Now I rest
in a hammock of words, waiting
for the sun to rise again
over the horizon of the page.”
— Linda Pastan / “The Collected Poems”