napowrimo day 13

day 13 – a riddle poem, a description of something without naming it. i’ve copied sylvia plath’s style 9 lines of 9 syllables from her “metaphor” poem… and because spring is running on in, bride’s feet tearing on down the hills, i can’t help myself with the  perty pictures…

a small cup, from which you cannot sip,

pages of a book, spine cracking wide,

unfold me but you would not succeed,

a tardis, limitless rooms inside,

inside a golf ball opening up,

folds upon folds of lace, scrunched brocade,

pleats of a skirt, pushed together, tight,

a fist of flat fingers, overlaid,

i am origami reversing.


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