the man in front of me buys cherry juice, cube-forced in a tetrapak, produced in sweden by a bunch of robots on a grey production line– while Pippi’s baking pancakes in her kitchen, with a set of brushes strap-bound to her shoes// i have her hair, i think & long for lemonade trees.
earlier i typed rows of figures into a cash machine & suck-licked densely condensed songs from car panes in a traffic jam on my way back from work.
at the check out i find piles of cross/words, tumbling frame-less on the floor
“why don’t you eat them?”
“what?” the cherry juice man frowns his forehead
“i mean// why don’t you find a tree &– ”
i never seem to understand this,
&don’t need an answer//don’t need my butter smoothed-out with an ivory, even surface, there are things that scare me well beyond// irregularity, i put my groceries on the counter—-
spring, a bee dashing
in a cherry blossom tree,
pollen as her dress
Björn has us write haibun at dVerse today… doors open at 3pm EST..