Upon arrival it smells
exactly as it should,
or only slightly different
than how it ought to

it should be
equal too; not you
like a morning mood
it can be a fickle youth

A poem lays:
a floor
It asks: what
am I naked for?

~
Beauty the incunabula
—first traces—of poetry

Feelings—known but unnamed—
spurned from the sublime


~
So fine
the lines
widening

like child’s
eyes before
fruit

ripening,
before it’s
known what
right is

any
good for you
—as mud for
elephants—

Snacks at
noon