Monday, January 25, 2016

A poem out of season

When is a poem ready to be picked
from its brambling vines?

If you slice it open and it's seedless.

If you see it
lazing in the shadow of itself
squandering its heat from lunch time sun

If it sits in the palm of your hand
and shrinks second by second

A poem that has clearly gone bad
Yes--now it's ready to be eaten.

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