  I've been reading Fanny Howe: I was blind until my eyes were opened My heart could feel the clatter & the wind of endless changes, painful drops & voices Then I saw what I had heard and time grew slow, each lilt a wither Light brought pace & pace brought scatter* My own writing does not often enough capture the simplicity of verse like this, deceptive simplicity.
Here's another sample from Howe: Huron red, the mist in inner Connecticut as on a wet meadow, clears the distance Yellow tractors do their job and the purple berry's dye, spills on a pinch. * She's marvelous. *culled from, once again, Moving Borders: Three Decades of Innovative Writing by Women , ed. Mary Margaret Sloan, Talisman House, 1998. 
