Tuesday, November 1, 2011

Harvest. Is a poem a harvest of words?

Exclusive? Prose, also?
Perhaps, you were saying, harvest of sound.

& the taste in the mouth equates to the harvest of a meal. And its color. Quite orange. A healthy orange.
Posted by at
Labels: ,

1 comment:

  1. SusanNovember 7, 2011 at 1:34 PM

    "yer off to the land where apples grow
    and we pick them before dawn"
    up in the country land they rode
    in a rickety car second hand
    he bought her peanuts and let her drive
    she tasted beer and couldn't tell
    but all was parked by the apple tree
    and all, all in all, was well

    sing this song to your fair haired boy
    see if he calms right down
    my trees have long turned into fire
    and my driver's in the ground

    ReplyDelete

Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom)