Little Tomato
little tomato
Last of the dying season
I love you most of all
In the absence of
Your fat brothers and
Blushing sisters
Though they were exalted
IN the suns decadent reasoning
They are gone
Lttle tomato
I love your hope
Clinging alone to the grey black
Final branches of a mothers love
I love your distorted imperfection
Never being and
Never tasting
You were never to be mine
You hold alone
In the too chill of nights frost
In the tall cold of New England
The young are fed the dying rat
and the great owl
disturbs the silence
|