Tuesday, February 1, 2011

reading: small hot milk

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
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.

2011 Peter Greene.


Dan Leo said...

Aw, poor little guy!

human being said...

he didn't know that a surprise is a surprise as long as it is not repeated much...

you surprise the reader, dear Old Peter... each time in a new way...

love your poetry very much!