Pick me out a poem

After I ate the poet
I left the shells
piled high on a plate
translucent-pink,
done just right —

and after all that
picking out the meat,
it looked like more
than when I started,
once it was done.

About pinklightsabre

William Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
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2 Responses to Pick me out a poem

  1. rossmurray1 says:

    This morning I spoke to a colleague as he was pulling his motorcycle out of his shed. He told me he was biking to Kentucky as a sort of pilgrimage to the grave of Thomas Merton. He’s bringing his daughter along. “Very Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance,” I said. “I’m bringing a copy along,” he replied.
    Might be time to tackle that one again.

    Like

    • pinklightsabre says:

      Yeah why not? Things change as we do it seems. Give it a go and report back why don’t you? You go first, I’m sure it will be fine.

      Liked by 2 people

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