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.



Categories: poetry

Tags: , , , , , ,

2 replies

  1. 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

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