E-mail Poetry

This piece was sculpted out of a long email thread I had with a close friend.

>                 reveals
>                 >         >                 >         >         >
>                 >
>                 >         itself as
>                 >         >                 futile and you have no
>                 >         >                 >         idea why
>                 >         >                 >         >         you’re
>                 >         >                 >         >         >
>                 sitting there
>                 >         >                 >         >         >
>                 >         with
>                 >
>
>
>
> –

This piece was composed by plundering spam titles that were themselves plundered from Edward Thomas and Wilfred Owen.

in the forest was a well, there he sat and cried
Against a grimed hand when his own’s quite dust
Hast thou no place in all their heritage
But here I pray that none whom I once loved
My head hangs weighed with snow
as possible beneath the smoke. Presently he saw open space, and the green
is she going by herself, lying in his grave?