a fond, tickling feelingthat i used to write
that words used to come to meand splay their legs on my page
that i’d take a whisperand let myself be seduced by it
i wanted to write this poemabout tiny purple flowersthat grow on a hilland i imaginedthat it would be long andskinny,the poem,and that it would go onfor pages and pagesso that it would definitely be,or at leastfeel,worthyourmoney;but then just nowas i startedwritingiti