Wednesday, October 29, 2008

space, or the shape of a mango

a 20 (or so) line poem

the sound of fall cutting through, chainsaw against orange leaf
each grain layered like little chinese dragons
at the new year

the taste of buttered wine at lunch
smelling sweet like grapes pressed firm

chittering distant or the mosquito in my ear
scratched, to the bone
a piece of golden green, refracted, shadows shifting against each changed light

the clever taste of single voices, shimmering clear
not each grain but the particular flakes of wild, golden, rustling
a moving away from the understood glow
maneuver of an autumn

feel this, pig lipstick
the painting, disturbed by sound, broken, echoed
"that one"
the red wheelbarrow of hilarity

falling rocks scrape the insides of intuition
taste the root vegetables, one flavor at a time

we will march toward the tree line and circle flowers made of teflon
each leaf laughing against blue
troubled wonder

the flavor of a shade
spliced on the wind

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