Friday, October 23, 2015


Many things are two-named.  Borlotti are also called cranberry beans.  Shell them & be delighted by their quietly speckled white flesh. Meaty & delicious.  Just like you wish every poem put in your mouth.

When you cook them, keep their color in your memory.  They cook into a nondescript beige, though the taste is anything but nondescript.

Isn't every bean a petite poem waiting to be tasted?  

1 comment:

  1. Speaking of beans, casseroles, and pot pies, things which age and gain merit with age, a volume I recently looked at again yielded some well-stewed lines. In time, they can be revisited again and again, in new forms, new surfaces. Perhaps they'll show up on a painting, in graphite and gesso, reminders of a year ripe with poetics.

    Reconstructions from April 2010, Constellations

    Lower Antilles, confusion on a mapped out lie
    She's sputtering before a chock-full season

    Lackadaisical high notes, wandering through the basin--
    in one more greening meadow, they hold out a pail of hope

    Awash with mango and the passion of two centuries
    In this fair dawn I do abandon the gondola, left to weather by the lake

    cp 421