I wrote this down in perfect confidence
And cannot read a word of it. It was
Etruscan, maybe, or the speech of mimes
Running against the wind, their lips sewn shut.
It was the scent of peaches when the trees
Have been uprooted, pulped, and turned to tales
Describing a girl converted to a peach.
Apollo took her home. Artemis ate her.
I made this up in perfect confidence,
While walking the dog. I don’t recall a word.
Something about a peach, miming the fate
Of man in late September, while the rain
Didn’t feel like the fall of man, but might
Come to that, with some mulching in between.
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