At this moment in SF, it is a fine time to be feasting on persimmons with their giant like orange color.
Can there be an absence of color in food -- black licorice or dates? Have we moved
into a discussion of Halloween? What's a terrifying poem? The one that went unwritten.
Minimalist epic: Persimmons masquerading as apples
picked
before
fall
from
tree
shapely
the crunch
thereof
timely
the day after such a force as joining bricks
ReplyDeleteand hands and epaulets and cisterns
the afterthought is one of: get back,
before an explosion of concrete
or a flood of angry water
turns back a shoreline
these admonitions exact their toll
and she hastens to run, yet can't
as in the recurring dream
which used to wake them both