Deciduous Haw flake slipped between forefinger and thumb, smooth as the pages of a used book, sharp and sweet like the sound of reading aloud when blank weightless air roots throat to earth, as stretched copper cable sends words from Christmas Island to Ivory Coast, from wired to wireless fidelity, to the taut knot of knowing one person from whorl to footprint, slow walks in public parks ringed by trees named rain, trumpet, sea apple, Indian rubber, like asking when the very last leaf of every single evergreen will fall— Chinese hawthorns bald through winter but the fruit remains. All luxuries we afford. ----- because poetry is a luxury we can afford:p
Posted on: Mon, 23 Jun 2014 07:49:45 +0000
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