Friction of pencil on paper
Sets it all in motion.
Dry scraping sound
Uncovers worlds locked in silence.
Until the scraping starts
There’s no form; there’s nothing.
The scraping is the miracle,
It’s that simple.
I used to think that only poets
Could write poems. And I studied
Those poets and their poems
And I made them bigger than life.
This is how I do it now – pencil, paper, sound.
And a rough beast shows its face.
Paul Boyer
Durango
