Splinter
.
.
I like you, a twenty-year-old poet writes to me.
A beginning carpenter of words.
A beginning carpenter of words.
His letter smells of lumber.
His muse still sleeps in rosewood.
Ambitious noise in a literary sawmill.
Apprentices veneering a gullible tongue.
They cut to size the shy plywood of sentences.
A haiku whittled with a plane.
Problems begin
with a splinter lodged in memory.
It is hard to remove
much harder to describe.
Wood shavings fly. The apple cores of angels.
Dust up to the heavens.
.
by Ewa Lipska
from Drzazga
publisher: Wydawnictwo Literackie, Krakow, 2006