Improv. 2 (Week 5) "Those Winter Sundays" Robert Hayden

A little practice with the stanza form, seeing if shape could change or shift meaning.

A pen cracked over countryside cement,

Initialed in velvet, stuffed with old oxygen

The kind that carries spit over time. I hate 
ink. Smells of pigments choking walls.

Drops of ink creeping through cracks,
Creeks were our forgotten steps. Or maybe 
places where your cane catches a breath.

My bed was the guest room,
Though we never broke bread,

Chopped it up, or was waiting to cut.