Dissevering a cucumber
I envied how each slice retained
Identity as “cucumber”.
Now, there’s a litmus test for craft.
You slice your poem into lines,
And thumb a line between two slides,
And hold it up to cloudy light,
And squint to look for “poetry”.
If all you see is whitened verse
In search of fractal fulfillment,
Compost the line inside your mind
And hope a vine is recomposed.
Until then salt your severed whines
And grit your teeth on cucumber.