There are some times that I find myself stuck on a specific piece of my own writing. Where I write something that seems so perfect that to add to it, or to change it any way, might demean it's initial beauty. I have had this stanza stuck in my head for almost the past year. And no matter what I do with it it still seems to lead nowhere.
I sleep on the couch on occasion.
When life seems more in transition.
It is the curse of knowing the how
if not the where and the when.
I take this and I try building off of it. I try to place it in the middle of something, but no matter what it I do with it the stanza shines above all the words that I write around it. So, in an attempt to move past it, or to merely let it be what it is, and no more than that. I have decided to lay it to rest here, for now. Until some other piece comes to marry it and allows it to expound into the fullness of what I intend for it.
As of late, I have been reeding a lot of WCW (William Carlos Williams) and one of his pupils, Robert Creeley. Their work can be characterized by its minimalist and vibrant imagery. I think that this poem would fit perfectly along their themes. So, I will let it sit as is. A title is yet to be applied, but I am thinking something along the lines of Terminal Disease.
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