Plundered (an)Them
Oh Can . . .
your light so proud,
the red glare
bombs sting
our flag, ill.
somebody asked me how come you publish poems on the net, especially little poems, lines strung along together, but they aren't published in the sense of final, finished, processed, done, these are the record of passing thoughts, language that has been flung to see where it falls, a working notebook in progress, always open to response and change and the process