Plucking fetta from
the Carlos café platter
brings a subtle satisfaction
to the poetic eye, seeing
things in their sheer naked
true colours white on red
is utter existential delight
white cubes iceberg-bright
stand up for themselves
set among strands of shredded
beetroot, like remnant sunset
cirrus clouds in the bleeding light
should a poet always say
exactly what they mean
or can they discover later?
sundried tomatoes curled
like foetal thoughts about
to leap from their olive oil
our minds are sharpened
like scalpels they cut and dry
outfox the Rumi paradox
Intrigued by words, tastebuds
and eyes and ears engaged
we feast on things that matter
Fiona McIlroy© May 1 9 2009
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