Getting Around To It


The oranges sat out all day
on a pink plastic plate,
cut in imperfect coins.
The house smells
like a rotting grove.
The birds still hunger.
Should I ever want them back,
I will have to part with the fruit.


Stand tall all winter
day after day, bare trees wait
listen for orders.


No gorilla ever asked
what should I do?
No fish ever howled
to be fed. A privilege
among the furred and finned
this early American self-reliance.
Even homeless animals scavenge.


It is the string
it is the knot
it is the strength
of the strung knot.


What if it doesn’t hold?


2 responses »

  1. “What if it doesn’t hold?” i wonder what you’d get if you kept going? or started a new poem with that as the first line?

    (i really like the title of this one. it seems like that’s all i’ve been saying around blogland lately, but i do seem to be interested in people’s titles.)

  2. I read these as separate poems in a very small chapbook. Just my impression.

    Keep going, valentine. They are fabulous.

    (I could see the last line as an incantation, scattered hither and yon.)

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