Stonehenge

Poet's Sleep, 1989, Chang Houg Ahn 

The taste is new;

a mellow concoction

of innocence and corruption,

without a sell-by date.

I keep coming back,

like the tongue finds a change

in the mouth; a chipped tooth,

compelling imperfection.

I contradict myself;

conjure burnt offerings

to distract from the foreign,

strum a long melody on a bone comb.

It is still there.

Stubborn and marvelous, circular;

reminding me, like drunken chessmen,

to remain true to my lips.



tk/February 2014

R.A.D. Stainforth back this week in his black and white world...a scrumptious read...

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Regarding Lemons

(R.A.D. Stainforth and lemons and so on...)


Those lemons I bought at Christmas

are still in the fridge―

I had the best intentions

of squeezing them in Bloody Marys,

slathering curd on holiday toast,

but my pucker forgot,

preoccupied with pressing

unseasonal lemonade,

playing spoon and sugar,

flaying lodberries

with your lips.

tk/February 2013

Joseph Lorusso 

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