Big trees grew smaller, small ones big.
\nI could reach the third crotch of the willow,
\ntiptoe to catalpa pods once shinnied up after.
\nA fig surreptitiously picked smacked of
\ndelights so simple they had passed me by,
\nmulberries mixed with tar from telephone
\npoles tasting of wine from Provence.
\nWith gentle, bruising brushes, as one might
\ncaress a clitoris, I turned gardenia
\nbrown, its honeysuckle taint redolent
\nof the boy I no longer was. Amnesia
\nmay be tractable to olphactory cure.
\nWithout our cicerone smell
\nit’s blind lead deaf; deaf, the blind.<\/p>\n
*** Big trees grew smaller, small ones big. I could reach the third crotch of the willow, tiptoe to catalpa pods once shinnied up after. A fig surreptitiously picked smacked of delights so simple they had passed me by, mulberries mixed with tar from telephone poles tasting of wine from Provence. With gentle, bruising brushes, as … <\/p>\n
\nThis thought I had the other day. The more I thought it, the more it took the form of a mute sonnet.<\/em>\u00a0< Pastis<\/a><\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n