small hot milk
there is a little tiny man
who cuts up my nutmeg for me
he comes down to my house from the moon
on a tiny pair of snowshoes - silver-stringed
like electric tennis rackets
he cuts up the spice very quickly, into
tiny diamond-edged triangles; much better
than any grater or grinder can make
is the fresh taste of this
that he cuts - but
unfortunately
one night i caught him and squashed him against the wall
burst like a bug and guts - i
was tired, i was half-awake, he surprized me - no more
will i see the quick crazy half-smile
that would cross his face as he plied his tiny scissors; no more
will i see his eyes glint and glitter in the yellow kitchen light. He was beautiful.
6 comments:
"on a tiny pair of snowshoes - silver-stringed/like electric tennis rackets"
The atmosphere and imagery, extremely well done! I come to think of eery fairy tales of the days of John Blund (Hoffmann's, I mean). Your reading is also perfect for this piece.
Thanks a lot for this post, Peter!
Thank you, Jenny! You are very kind. I find readings hard - the words are pronounced perfectly well in my mind, but in the real world I am a large, nasal mumbling sound. So thanks doubly, for a double compliment.
Peter
Ah very nice.
Hey Peter. really great to see you & hear you reading man!! enjoyed muchly!
arka
I very much enjoyed the flow of this piece.
"He was beautiful". That's the epitaph we all want.
Thanks, everybody!
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