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.
hello...
You'll get cold if you don't dry off.
I say to you in all seriousness, I eat one.
Labels: Poems
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