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Mar 072011
 

by Natalie Grigson


When in an Amsterdam coffee shop

You notice things

In a slightly different light,

Mostly a little dim and out of focus,

Like in a theater

Lit by dusk.


Smoke that smells like the color purple

Percolates and pricks at your eyes.

Your vision becomes just cloudy enough

To see what you’ve always ignored—


The way the pen barely touches the page

And

Words

A   p   p   e   a   r  .


When everything comes from thought

These words break the rule

And spill

Solely from ink

Onto the page.


How long has this pen been waiting

For this unexpected and

Slightly skewed

Moment

To spill its contents?