Sunday, September 23, 2007


or lack thereof. not in my life. my poetry. which apparently results in crappy poetry and lowercased blog entries. anyways, i'm offering up the following for diagnosis.

Market: Florence, Italy

A pig is speaking
our wishes.

It doesn’t matter
if you whispered it
one wish
or twenty

it remembers them,
sends them running
out of its lips

left to be collected
by streetsweepers at dawn.


Aislin said...

At first I assumed the pig was fat and for sale, of course. But it doesn't sound fat. It sounds lean, and independent. Not owned. Is it? Just a thought, but you might enjoy Momo by Michael Ende.
You are a ribbon woven into my wicker-work heart, Blue. All my love.

Anonymous said...


I don't like diagnosing poems -- I like reading them.

And I liked reading this one.

Anonymous said...

Pig, huh? Reading this poem made me feel like either I was missing something (Pig? Florence?)or that it is just a little weird. Either way, I rather liked it. That second stanza feels good to me and the streetsweepers are genius.

Anonymous said...

I read this days ago, and loved it. love it again. i feel a little self conscious leaving my unpoetic feedback on such a poetic blog with other poetic commentors, but i think the images are really fantastical, which totally works for me. It's so different from what I've read of yours before, but I really love it. can't wait for the first collection of sarah poems. and i like the pig. it goes with the fantastical thing. in a way that it wouldn't with another animal.

mlh said...

This is one neat poem.


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