poem 26

April 28, 2014 § Leave a comment

the shape of things

it wasn’t yesterday
we bought chunks of pickled herring
packed in a cardboard container no
lid from massive men who knew them
personally devouring the not mere
morsels then and there using our fingers
full of laughter the brine running down our chins

today it was all slivers, the men
the herring, the laughter


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