a flim-flam morn

  cabbage without corned beef

      fantasyless plate

cordial, not the drink, but polite

this clump of days

this cowtipping of minutes

     stale breath, wreath of weeds

grandeur in its grandmother’s



what wild

    flown flowers

    broken pet-

als slit suns

    caught between explosions

    built of filament

    melt of spring

(I forget my season.)

The Domestication

    eyes like 2 fistfuls of sky

ever-fraught with relationship

    the sloped

    southern spill of words

    coughed out in a fit

    of conventional conventional

grace lawn drawn to size and

   rectangular deforested

wild beauty mangled


w/ a few bundt pan-like


and eaten by polite mouths in two’s.

An incidental scene

    conversational as rolled-up

sleeves, no valley of lilies but a sunflower

     its forlorn bigness

        toiled moonlessly

    in the night

     a Government of Ants

     the philosophy of legs

spelling, building things

   maybe pyramids a little

track and field for the

            dry diplomatic

          face of patience.

four poems by Peter Cole Friedman

R. Perkins

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