Two or forty strangers

I drew you as you slept
in this park, where I was.
Imagine that, you, cartoon,
would I see your cheeks as balloons?
Or like one curve in a valley
gone flooded far too soon?
Where can I buy your flesh,
fresh-like, before the gas,
while on the vine you grow en masse
still strong in the wind,
your green overgrown against
the dead kudzu beneath what’s sown.
To see what was left, that’s paper;
you’re not paper, are you, flat
or sanded through with holes
from an artist who threw paint on the trees
& left them dying in its alcohol,
their stomata like you in a breeze
of a curdled glance in this blackberry spring
being colored by all sorts of things
but not what I saw once, will see again.
I can only write you down
& that must be a sin
for even one tree teases all men.


Well, I tried some good old fashioned bastardised free verse with a touch of prosody. Turns out the more you give in, the less you end up giving.


~ by Jeremy on July 12, 2010.

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