Fresh cherries

Sad steeped poems

are the easiest;

it’s much harder to write

about eating cherries

with your feet

buried in sand

and with a breath of yellow

on your diaphragm

like a cat around your legs

purring as you move

against a towel that wraps

you in sleep

and wakes you up later

with the help of the wind

and smell of food

from some festival nearby

where people are smiling

and that makes you smile too

until you fall asleep again

and then wake up

some time

when some time comes,

hopefully while the cherries

are still fresh

*

A poem is a feeling

but it is the feeling

that was the poem

and anything afterwards

is an unfeeling mess

that leaves a person

untouched, still,

and wondering

what all the fuss

was about

*

I beat up Death

because he interrupted

a sip of beer

and a thought I had

about beer being bread

or a vegetable or something

so I had to take his job

for a while

until he healed

and came back for me

while I came for you