Monday, June 6, 2011

Not. How is poetry not anything

but itself? Especially, when ripe.


Stone fruit, also.

1 comment:

  1. Asking

    What really would be lost
    by painting that old table white?

    Out the window a white trellis stabs
    the blue corner of the house

    Rusty metal holds everything back
    and edges are suddenly the answer

    It is still foggy across the valley where
    earlier something unforgivable

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