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Poetry

It’s probably right here
out of the ripe moon rising
that a pit fell once
(because it isn’t just the moon’s
other side we don’t know
but also its pit)
and that’s what started
the apricot orchards
outside Varna.

Down sits the black-bearded gardener,
God the father
with the planets in his basket,
and bites into the full fruit.
After each mouthful
we’re in a different phase of apricot,
in apricot time
quick as the passing of a scent.
Until the new moon
when Mirza the gardener
spits in a godly manner
the meteor of pit.


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