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Haiku Free Verse Prosies
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When I met you there were no flowers,
no music, and you wore no ostrich feathers in your hair.
I read you an italian poem.
A dark-haired boy sat down beside us.
Later he told you I was trying to seduce you
and said he loved you.
Later he plucked the strings of his guitar and did not answer.
Later he ran away to New York City.
When I saw you next I was thinking of your pants,
the way they curved on you and would never curve on me.
They came all the way from Paris.
You hunched inside of them
and looked at me.
You asked if I meant to seduce you with that poem.
But really I was just reading it,
having translated it the night before
after reading too much Keats,
staying up with a small cough,
and cooking an omelette for breakfast
which I called a frittata.
Like that poem,
the rise and fall of your chest, the way you smell,
or the way you hunch in pants from Paris
can mean different things to different people.
I've come to understand the nature of your perfume.
It is not about flowers
or music or ostrich feathers
but about sex, raw and trembling on the page.
© Frances Donovan
1995, 1997
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