In the night, while it was getting lighter,
The letter R appeared from somewhere
A poem possibility, in curtained window
Of  just -write, inside  to a dark thinning,
Thinking that is, a mind is filled slowly
With letter combinations of flesh, fresh
And spirit inclined to it from strong flesh.

A possibility yet not ripe, like the fruit
Waiting in the rice jar, for the right heat
To mature its limbs and make it softer
And riper, succulent to eat, throw rind
Into an organic bin waiting in the dark,
A fruit that  will mature brownly  to  gold
Softer to touch , smell before it wrinkles
Of  too much heat, in a warm rice house.

Now  I look down and see below my chair
A live R of not fresh and spirit  but a roach
That has somehow managed to keep alive
In the deadly fumes of a herbal pesticide
Stuffed in the house crevices a year ago,
A roach matured as golden brown poem.


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