Wednesday, March 15, 2017

SCRAPE

Back then,
thought
I was supposed to

cut
all the things I wanted—
into poems;

lash at their boundaries,
rub, scour, stick-
in—everything that fit.

Figured I wanted
a cool indigo
bruise to show,

sweet and ugly,
earthy and thick

ready to bust—
like an overfat misshapen
heirloom tomato.

Assumed enough pressure
would hold
anything in, though.

Wouldn't even have recognized—
how savory
a simple

leaf
of oregano,
how merciful

a missing detail,
how decent

and right
one like

this could be—five, four,
three, even

two
years ago.

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