fossils

In a lattice-lit dorm room sits a writer. A discarded chemistry book lies beside her. because ideas are hitting off her, like a collider. Why does writing make her feel alive-er? Cause it helps sort out the feelings inside her? Repose is something grinding-study denies her. Now, rhyming isn't her primary desire the connections form, almost, despite her poetry’s at it best when it comes unaware “Oh,” she thinks, like we’re going there? What she writes might eventually be shared with that awareness she vowels with care picking words when they seem the ripest shaping phrases like some sort of stylist she may be less of a poet than a typist Her default is to narrative - like you read in novels cause let’s face it - cold-poetry is as dead as vaudeville, as buried as silent movies, letters and opera, have I come to dig up Caesar, like a fossil? . . cold = straight up