At the Desk 

I can see the world 

                       is made of                   thin shadows. 

 

Like a line                   speckled in flowered dots

            reaching out to touch it’s living companion. 

 

At night I am a world

                                      submerged. Void moon in  Poseidon.

Lost castaway,    shipwrecked 

 

                                           spellbound 

                                                                                                                 siren. 

I see brown paper 

                         collages, green-tinted,    paint-scraped   over with charcoal    scrubbed

words   pasted between scraps of started poems, maps of the mind,               taped in

memory. 

 

Ceiling    fan    blades     slice away                       light.    Each 

 

                                                                shadow, an             exhale 

 

         and my eyes sparkle 

                                              like prisms splitting   white light. 

Sara Whittemore is a poet living in Houston, Texas. She is currently seeking her MFA from Naropa's Jack Kerouac School and has a Bachelors from the University of Houston-Downtown where she was the recipient of several writing awards.

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