Wednesday, April 6, 2011


I've been folded, section upon section--
made small, a wallet-sized prize.

One might keep me in their pocket,
a used toothpick, cracked and bent,
poking at flesh through fabric.

The person I stab didn't even hear me cry.
Off he went to perform another miraculous
smashing. This is the part of the poem

where I might guess his mean motives.
Instead, I maneuver the tip of my head
into the light, notice almond trees in full leaf--

and they glint--new green everywhere.

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