Spoons out of raspberry strata,
Puffed with shallow scoops of breath,
Are curved and burnished until
A warped face gleams back.
Now stretched at all of her seams,
With vagrant glances upward
She says, cavalier,
"My violin's been strung so many years
I am just sick of the high notes."
So she replaces her chokecherries
With wandering jews, and lets
Her starthimbles tumble downward.
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Oh poems...No good can come of this.
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