Wasn’t going to do it, but whatever the poems say is what matters.
the fingernails
of the new barista
plum blossoms
the barista’s
freshly glossed lips
a different menu
the outfit
of an approaching woman
lavender becomes her
Xmas flurries
my stocking bulges
with black jelly beans
Tidal Basin
the boats paddling through
cherry blossoms
through the window
a tenor sax solo
wild honeysuckle
reaching up
for the new box of cereal
the snap crackle and pop
bare stalks
across a cotton field
mourning doves
a rainbow
in a shard of glass
Monk’s robe
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