Articles, interviews, etc. often turn into poems as I read. This isn’t a found poem in the proper sense, as I’ve modified the original text, but I did find it, in my own way.
The language of silence
(after Kate Gale)
we spend our nights
at the bottom of a well
lit by our own imaginations
we are sailing on a canoe
in the dark over the moon
to find the island of forgiveness
every poem is a prayer
to the universe
for not being perfect
The Daily Compost 