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Flower Heads and Grain

Peter Richter

We were conceived
as vulnerable spindles

w/ ballet eyes

made of metal & glass.

In a palm or on a femur,
sleep is a pulley.

We revise:

Rest
is not gained.

We hit the pummel horse
like street drummers.

Tribal rhymes.

In the kitchen sun,
apples melting in a pot,
silver whisk
& crank.

In a cabin
w/ Henry, pen
& lantern.

We leave behind
ink fingerprints

smudgeclouds on the
tabletops.

We are the undeniable

walking through
phonetic arches while

Whitman continues
to heal Newark.
We prove & define.