processed into white acrid cylinders,
they may take all sorts of shapes such as
smoked stones, ash powered dungs.
A sharp knife slices a roll of cheese,
a white, creamy patch keeps stuck on its blade.
I lick it carefully
my craving tongue avoids the cut
of the metal carving tool in my hand.
With my fingers I pick up the slice:
a thin white washer pure as snow,
I could bleat as I eat this tiny titbit
but I hum and I my tongue spits saliva
outside my mouth, on the verge of my lips.
Walter Ruhlmann
http://lorchideenoctambule.
Nantes (France)
1 comment:
Poetry doesn't get much better than this. "Running" may rank with the best poems Ancient Heart has published.
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