Wednesday, August 27, 2008

Poem Interlude


"But how late to be regretting all this, even
Bearing in mind that regrets are always late, too late!" John Ashbery

January is warm as Mays
that brought blossoms,
though plump cherries
here, $3.99 a pint,
may not even grow on trees.

I think they shook them
from jars, wiped them clean,
attached fresh stems, and dyed
the flesh a holier red
for market. Cheery whores.

It's a question of remove
as my teeth hit a pit
and my memory gropes
for the sweetness that once
accompanied the pain.

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