Friday, January 31, 2014


The astringent has it place.  Often in demand.  Squeezed on avocado or chicken.  Or the combination.

The astringent in poetry?   A leanness, leaning toward a bite.  Not bitter.  No sarcastic.  A defined line
and minimal.   And, yes, the color:   no complaints, there, especially for those back East.  Perhaps, cold is a subset of astringent?

A shout-out to Mrs. Green for another bag of beautiful, bold limes.

1 comment:

  1. In the darkening room, she wonders if the rattan shade isn't enough. She returns her tea cup to the plaster stand and resumes the wicked pastime. When people pass her window late at night, the may see a shadow make its oval forms on the red wall. She concocts an escape for the most casual bystander, caressing her skirt against her cheek. From the cliff of her dais, she watches the silly ships aghast in the wind.

    "Suds", SF,'86