is never truly abstract at least not for long. Embodied, sensual. seasonal. Lamenting figs, I slice a persimmon and the mouth reconnects with pleasure almost forgetting the Early Girl tomatoes have
fled. Slipped from memory as a line of poetry unwritten.
Compositions CT 2
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The trees kept swaying in the wind
I looked for her everywhere
Up the stairs
Behind the doors
In the back yard
On the bus
Out the window
In the mirror