Sunday, August 25, 2013

If there were one fruit to describe your current poems, what would it be?

Figs or peaches.  Nothing is singular about the ripe.  Nothing is singular about poetry.  So, what's for dinner?  Did someone forget to take out the cheese this morning?  And the beloved cat will not answer the phone.

1 comment:

  1. H/c

    Waiting for the vendor, the fruit, and the wine
    the daughter noticed a huge cargo liner
    heading out to sea, the tourists moving on
    their silk scarves blowing behind them

    The near and far voices of travel
    reminded her of a summer somewhere south
    a hammock, some stars, the taste of figs,
    a twig blown past them by a sudden breeze