2 Quotes by George Elliott Clarke

The moon twangs its silver strings;The river swoons into town;The wind beds down in the pines,Covers itself with stars.

In school, I hated poetry - those skinny,Malnourished poems that professors love;The bad grammar and dirty words that catchIn the mouth like fishhooks, tear holes in speech.Pablo, your words are rain I run through,Grass I sleep in.