The poem as novel
Small grapes of the morning like poetry,
cold water pulsing deep in the well,
a bag of bright nails in the yard,
the smell of cut wood wet in the sun,
the mild bite of pain put on everything
and everything still to be done
-- when love's first sting buckles them to the ground.
The long melons of the afternoon like prose
and by the poolside the gin drinks and the sun,
the new car bright
as a jelly bean on the lawn,
a glaze of clean order put on everything
yet everything looking to be done
--when love has rubbed them smooth as a stone.