Pumpkin


This is less how to, more about why.
Your flat palms are a self-imposed
loss of freedom.

You’ve confessed,
prostate from Davis Creek
where you were born.

Irrevocable as shoes.
Trumpets and drums.
Interlinked perfection.

I won’t go so far to say brilliance or exactitude,
it’s too early for that.
Only you and I know about the grey-ness.


The plums have been pillaged in any old fashion.