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It satisfies when circles coincide:
when the mug matches the marmalade;
the ketchup, the upside-down wine glass.
The same cannot be said of squares or triangles:
stacking place mats is a chore – no jeopardy
and toblerone is just frustration wrapped in foil.
My goldfish now live in high-rise globes
and compete for the best view.
Octagons and similar are slightly pathetic:
geometric bling to draw attention from regular emptiness;
circles altered surgically
in a failed attempt to improve the natural curve.
I prefer you without make-up, just as you are.
Palm to palm, sole to sole, have their own sensations,
but I like it best eye to eye
when circles coincide
and at the point of balance
we join the goldfish in the sky.
Start with a simple declarative paragraph;
minimum two lines. Best if it’s
first or third person and highly specific.
Journalistic styling is acceptable.
“Mary” is a good female name.
There are no good male names.
Proceed quickly to a scene from nature,
go light on adjectives and alliterations,
no similes. No birds either.
There are now two choices: human society is
losing touch with wild nature; or, we live in
an unavoidably connected wild natural world.
Mary had a little lamb.
Start over, this time naming the main
Bring in a contrasting natural setting:
mountains, rivers, trees, Winter.
Avoid the color “purple,” the nouns “wine”
and “rainbow,” and the adjective “fetid.”
Next, wow them with a shocking segue
to an existential emergency – birth, aging,
death, sex, whatever. Choose Sheila’s
three-year battle with stomach cancer.
The words “fog” and “mist” come to mind.
Give a call back to the opening. However,
“Hey Sheila!” is a sure loser, believe me.
Consider ways of using Sheila’s cancer and
death as a metaphor. Avoid clichés. Pause to
marvel that death could be a cliché.
Conclude with a magnificently profound
platitude. Use Google to make sure
it’s original. Read some Basho and try again.
Await the inevitable raves and
accolades: oh, thank you! Thank you!
Recall the phrase bloody ignorant apes,
that Winter on the mountain tastes like
fetid wine, rivers tumbling over Sheila’s
forgotten shadow, a foggy rainbow, a tree
lost in the purple mist, a falling bird.