Thursday, May 10, 2007

Coffer's Tobacco

his grandfather roughed in the staves, then planed
the end of the stool, wicker soft as calf’s tongue, his hands
bled through with sweat and plumb chalk, finished wood
and oil, and the smell of coffer’s tobacco and mint

1 comment:

Stephen Rowntree said...

Thanks ever so much, Biby...I visited your site and can say the same: keep up the good work, and yes, I'll be back, too.

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"Poetry is the short-circuiting of meaning between words, the impetuous regeneration of primordial myth". Bruno Schulz
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