For the past few years I have been working on a series of prose poems. As with most of my writing, it’s not happened as quickly as I would have wanted. I’m used to it; I’m a slow cooker, a crock pot. Here’s one that was published in Project for a New Mythology:
When I should be at the desk, the cold calls to the dog. We fill the space between the margins of this midtown fence. The best time is after the murmur of rush hour: the light when the sun is soon overcome and the peace that comes in the crack of each autumn step. We gnaw each new branch until it’s time to go back to the warm level places, water in bowls, the dull finish of a desk. We sit listening for something beyond these white walls–maybe attic rats or squirrels, maybe choirs or promises made during card games played in the dark.