Tuesday, May 18, 2010

Poetry feeds our souls. Sweet potatoes feed our bellies.

The potato that ate all its carrots,
can see in the dark like a mole,

its eyes the scars
from centuries of shovels, tines.

May spelled backwards
because it hates the light,

pawing its way, paddling along,
there in the catacombs.

entitled 'yam' (here)

No comments:

Post a Comment