A cherry tree leans into your
leg
becoming.
Households must join.
Truth is one hot shield.
You know, many of my short
stories
are about a woman wanting to
love
and while no one in the story
knows
they’re old news (Keats’
“Ode”)
(the urn itself) (the lavender
pump’s apogee)
they know.
“Clouds were thin”
you reported last night
“and wispy.” In a grocery store
no one tuned into the
symphony.
Cherry trees’ temporal
blossoms are
fragile (See strong — Roget’s II)
and strum George Harrison’s
guitar.
I’m quite sure I hear a
civilized minuet.
Sarah Sarai | Fifth Wednesday | Spring 2009