Poem of the Day
Hares
By Angela Ball
The part / that flusters some, that flusters no one.
The part / that flusters some, that flusters no one.
And here, the remains of a field
A path withstands the onslaught of ferns
Mushrooms grow
on contorted limbs of a felled rônier palm
Handles of pruning hooks
I want only to be a worn-down stone
on the ruins of time,
I’ll go plant the tree of my grief
in the wetlands
of silence close to her grave
I’ll live in lantana
shrubs
Fast fella, cough it up, five cents more please.
Faster, this crap’ll kill you, like anything else
It is half life
There is honey in your harmony
Imagine, the grace of these children!
We are in the sun. What elapses
is history. Do you ever move?
I am the one
who skulks in the library
sadness passes
and madness passes
away and the train
He is very sorrowed that all this happened.
He works for his brothers.
I lift my cone to hers
As if drinking a toast.
Her pink tongue, like a cat’s,