gloss

most of the poem; a stab at epistemological verse—if you’re confused, so am I.

The cherry gleams in golden light,

It’s neither red nor plum;

It’s closer to the gleaming bite

Of lipstick—beat the drum,

And clash the cymbals too

Who chose the shape that means the heart,

Which now means “I love you”?

Cherry fruit is sweet and tart,

Cherry stones are gory,

But who gave us the right to write

Our songs into the story?

A cherry is a dangled “might,”

A cherry’s plucked with thumbs,

A cherry plucked can’t be unplucked,

A depth can’t be unplumbed.