It's late, I can't sleep, and other than lambasting myself for things that should have been done, I'm haunted by late-night poems (which in the morning are about as coherent as stoner poems). Enjoy.
Pie
At the edge of the night
crusts turn crispy
(by a sun)
and the sky, star-poked
for ventilation,
holds what I assume to be
apples.
2 comments:
I don't get it, but it did make me chuckle.
~2q
Yeah, it wasn't as clear for me the next morning either. I must have been hungry.
Apples was a throwback to Genesis though, I remember that much.
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