White Fingers Scissoring a Love Poem into SnowFritz Ward
Dear Coworker, I refuse to write another poem where the moon glints like a hubcap lost in a retention pond. My morning glass of milk casts a spell that keeps it perpetually upright. It’s dazzling and empty. When I put my head down, the pines make a muffled song of the wind. I substitute because syntax once mattered. Example A: The doors of perception vs. the perception of doors. Example B: I haven’t forgotten your mouth—no ordinary winter—your mouth, which gives fruit a gender. And your teeth, how they collapse the skin of your daily apple—never green, never yellow—only the red an other could love. And yet—yet I hesitate a taste. I am so very uninsured. The scaffolding of your arms appears entirely accidental.
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