Friday, May 11, 2012


Everything is possible in this most possibleof worlds.  Roll enough dice, and miracles look probable.

The miracle of winter fruit: although you miss
the strawberries, the custard apples fruit in May.

The fridge has fizzled out.  Is this a bolt of fortune?
We'll throw a potluck, drink condensed milk from the can.

Cleaning out the attic, under old Reader's Digests,
you find a diary, half-eaten by the must.

You strain your arms until the screw-top jar flies straight
into the wall, and stand blinking at your own might.

Really, Rachael? You expect to twist a cloud
into cotton candy?
Hell, who knows?  I could.

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