by Laurinda Lind
Early I sat in a circle
and nothing fit anything else, or
what if I were
the extra integer though
the room was all right. But someone
spilled lyrics loud over speakers.
And what if for once I wanted
the words, the first ones
later landing last, but was shy
to say the story once I stayed
at the center of it. Worried
about where I could run
that wasn’t already ruined,
that century of whatever
else lay in my mouth full of numbers
I wouldn’t spend without song.
Laurinda Lind lives in New York’s North Country, close to Canada. Some of her writing is in Blue Earth Review, New American Writing, Paterson Literary Review, and Spillway. She is a Keats-Shelley Prize winner and a finalist in several other competitions. She is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee.