...inspired by the word "thicket." I "wrote" the first two lines in my head last night, while trying to sleep, and decided that today I would try and flesh them out, sticking more to rhythm and sound than to meaning. (Perhaps it's ironic that I ended up with a poem about the loss of meaning.)
He hid it in a thicket
where she could never find it
and with him gone it withered
and crumbled into ether
and on his way he rambled
as if it never happened
as if he hadn’t squandered
this morsel of his spirit
And from the earth it rumbled
and leaves began their leaving
as nature saw the missing
as punishment for thieving
And in her room she heard it
and wondered at the tumult
and thought again of loving
but closed the blinds against it
And measure after measure
the music shook the mountains
He saw it in the paper
and closed his eyes a moment
deciding that the rhythm
was suitable for dancing
It’s now at Number Seven
He’s headed for a Grammy
He’ll thank his agent, Jesus,
the fans, and this great nation
where anyone, transcending
can cleave their art from feeling
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