THE SELF

The View From My Desk

Perspective altered
Prospect canted
Outlook shifting
Vista transfigured and strange

She sees things, this poet,
Beveled, oblique
Neither parallel nor perpendicular
But peculiar

A world built of bubbled words
Coagulating iridescence, expanding opalescence
Deliciously joining to form astonishing wholes
Dissolving and changing, transforming and becoming

Thoughts fall on paintings piled on poems piled on notes on scraps of paper piled on photographs piled on envelopes and empty teacups, piled on music piled on notebooks piled on piles of paper and glitter pens piled on reference books piled on novels and candles piled on piles of paper piled on poetry piled on paintings . . . there is no use looking at the desk
The universe is happening on the monitor screen

© Edwina Peterson Cross