Poetry, Still Life Poetry

Born of Drought and Humdrum Despair

Barren, plodding hours
clip the waxy blossoms
from a spindly
yellow-leaved pomegranate tree.

Only one fruit survives.
It is small
and waterless.

And arsonists

sweat and twitch and ejaculate
as their ill-intentioned campfires
possess the mountains

one thrashing
beetle-eaten tree at a time.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s