Something so still as to be called a still life transforms shell into bone, dried pomegranate into a raspberry-center, a slab of marble into forest and sea, and a glass perfumer into all the light necessary to siren. Or perhaps this quartet coalesced as a bone/shell star. Now consider, a poem as a still life accepting the quiet and/or awaiting transformation. And what is cooking if it isn't transformational?
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ReplyDeletetoo much sherbet at the fair