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
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.



2011 Peter Greene.

2 comments:

Dan Leo said...

Aw, poor little guy!

human being said...

ouch!
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!