Still Life by Moonlight

Where the moon will spill
pale and cold through your window,
I’ve left this green bowl
of cherries and plums, taut-skinned
over firm flesh—fragrant, wet

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
This entry was posted in Art, Art is lies, Art is theft, John MacKenzie, Micropoetry, New poems, Poem tweets, Poetry, Tanka, The Moon and tagged , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Mumble back at me

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