352
Kurt H. Wolff
A BREATHLESS OD E
Peeled back the skin
of the persimmon,
While bitter Mister Mars
lifts a hideous vase.
I eat baked sweets
on a lax taste,
Down in my stomach
is
the gong of cannons.
The second fruit,
orange-fleshy lout:
Diplomatic whores
trap the years with stones.
A candied Christmas cake
on a slim fork:
The desert reverberates
from assembled pirates.
The third persimmon
doesn't let its skin,
Easily retards
war, wars, wars.
