|"When I write, I feel like an armless, legless man with a
crayon in his mouth."
| In an armless, legless world of my own, lit only by a desk
lamp, a drug addict prays to God for love, a woman loses
love in the tragic throes of dementia, brutal men twist love
into something else, a sociopath poisons love. Love is
surrendered in an attic room, love is remembered and
longed for years after it was gently thrown down, love is
realized in rain beating down on the hood of a car trapped in
traffic. While I write with a blue crayon, an artist decides
that love is orange, and paints it that way with mannerist
brush strokes on a carefully stretched canvass. It has
seemed to me that almost everything eventually begins and
ends with some kind of love.
|New York City Rain
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|More books of Narrative Poetry by D. J. Andersen
|Published by BPC