Each morning, I
get out of bed from beside my
wife and I
walk past the bedrooms of our
three small children and I
go to the attic, amidst things old and new, where I
look to the secrets artists have made real, these things I
desire. I
cannot speak of what art it is I
go there to find; if I
gave it voice and made it even more real to me,
it might grow teeth and claws, and rather than scar my
own flesh, it might look for a new canvas.
* * *
Each morning,
I get out
of bed from
beside my
wife and I
walk past the
bedrooms of
our three small
children and
I go to
the attic,
amidst things
old and new,
where I look
to the se-
crets artists
have made real —
these things I
desire. I
cannot speak
of what art
it is I
go there to
find; if I
gave it voice
and made it
even more
real to me,
it might grow
teeth and claws,
and rather
than scar my
own flesh, it
might look for
a new canvas.
* * *
Each morning,
I get out of bed
from beside my wife
and I walk past
the bedrooms of our
three small children
and I go to the attic,
amidst things old and new,
where I look to the secrets
artists have made real —
these things I desire.
I cannot speak
of what art it is
I go there to find;
if I gave it voice
and made it
even more real to me,
it might grow
teeth and claws,
and rather than
scar my own flesh,
it might look
for a new canvas.
* * *
I think I like the bottom one best.
Experimenting with rhythm/meter.
