Imagine a copse of clown-trees,
she says, with revolving bow ties
for leaves and bright red nose buds.
Do the flowers squirt brass bees
with nectar, I ask. Oh yes,
she agrees: it is a necessary prank;
how else can the shoe seeds form?
They dangle in long pairs from the boughs,
you know, and drop with the first frost
to the hard ground, slapping down
among puff balls and stinkhorns:
who painted your face so sad?
Friday, December 28, 2007
This one showcased on the blog under the delightful title Pointless Poetry Exercise #1 - I think it needed no more than a tweak to bring it to fruition: