By Madison [m.madison@usa.net]
Date: 19 February 2001

porringer

never did I write you for the 
cutting room.  not for your 
tasting this steamed crucifer 
or that.  not for the acid test.
of its pallor, its green florets, raw.
or its jaundiced, thin overdoneness. 
do you remember
in her yard of leaves 
the old woman drinking coffee
through a bent plastic straw.
her hair peeking yellow 
from a cap. 
I write you but to taste 
with yours what my 
tongue finds, what it sees.  what
it hears.  touch.  when you warm
this pewter spoon, or that.
when you warm my runcible.
forklike with edges.


M Madison
19 feb 01