Elegy improv attempt in parts.
Blunt knife pares the peachy hirsute
and, somehow, I remember you,
though your hands never dusted in nutmeg red,
nor taught me the taste of battered fruit
thought finds you now , hollow and treasured
in some back-hill plot in the Carolinas, gone.
….
Some flavor unadded—vanilla or heaven’s
soluble condition—that fragrant taste of you that, like
life,
has quickly been consumed.
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