Already, the year cracks its spine further open
and the leaves let in more phosphor, more light—

Already, dreams turn down the alleys and shed
their delirium of pink petals on stone—

I’ve set into motion the ball that strikes
another at the end of a silver string—

And what will be will be, says the poem
that grows word by word into lines—

So eat, grain by pearled grain, of the pulp
that glistens and clings to the rind—


In response to small stone (204).

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