Saturday, September 10, 2011

Tomato

She is sick
She holds the tomato
that I have given her
from the garden.
She brings it to her nose
and smells it.
She rubs the brown
flecks of dust dirt
off until it shines
and hands it back to me

The music will still be perfectly wonderful

It outlives our letters  simply there against  the thrashes of loneliness  among the check out counters,  wildly spaced  like the words in a...