A sore back demands
gin and tonic, a handful
of potato chips.
--
The lime slice floating
in its carbonated sea
--a drowning green moon.
--
While sun-like peaches
lie in pleated purple ruffs
ready to bleed gold.
--
I've been away; back in Montreal now, with a report on the travels coming soon. My back is better, it's been a little cooler here, and I hope everyone is coping with the heat and humidity.
We Anglos couldn't do the first haiku; chips for us are crisps. The word incorporates (perhaps suggests) a diminuendo, the worrying thought that the line is incomplete even though it isn't. Chips chops it off, containing the poetry. I should never stray into territories I wot not of.
I ache vicariously for your back. Dearly beloved VR has ached now for decades and I know this is all I can do. But I have a mission and you know what it is. I want to read that book. Will pay to do so even though the transatlantic pound/dollar exchange rate rapaciously equates the two forms of currency. It is my job to nag. Consider yourself nagged.
Posted by: Roderick Robinson | July 29, 2013 at 02:18 AM