Reposted: english

I want to write

of cold, juicy plumbs,

stolen from the ice box

that taste the sweeter for it.

I want to write

of his last duchess

if anyone wonder what happened

to the faire-one's successor.

I want to write

of tomatoes

taking of a town in June,

and settling on a kitchen sideboard.

I want to write

of a sad, put-away aunt,

who brought with her

away a sweet innocent, drowned.

I want to write

of Désirée's baby,

accepting aweful fate in life

though it is not your own to bear.

I want to write of

the soul cleansing white sun,

freedom in the breath of the llano,

and know the understanding of freedom.

Am I writing yet?