Friday, September 08, 2017

strawberry tree

It is

something spun I found or believe in the red-and-green leaves.

There's something broken in the gold-and-brown leaves.

There's something real in the green-and-green leaves.

In the brown and purple leaves I returned to tell

surrounding the haze,

brocade fiber switch
of the canopy, focus,

sun yet streaming on brown-striped arms and legs.
A man draws near. He comes alongside with the steady, purposeful strokes of a man accustomed to speaking.

But I can't reply. How will we share

our crimson childbed, our separate prams parked in the shade?

I shrieked and the strawberry fell into my mouth.

Weren't we then fish of the same water?

Swimming through the port-holes and the weedy eye-sockets?

We shrieked and our strawberries fell into our mouths.

And it isn't good or bad, it's Only.


You'll get cold if you don't dry off.

I say to you in all seriousness, I eat one.



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