Saturday, August 13, 2016

Picnicking in Hook Meadow with a Family from Nice, I Connect

Aorist, I loved—how long for?
Was love fixed, or like the tides
That laved the shore
By quotidian divides?

Pica, I partook of ore
Concealed by esculent airs;
Penugem, saw,
Up close, the raspberries' hairs;

Felt no hunger for those four
Pulps atop my fingers, splayed,
But craved rapport,
And so, merrivore, I played.