Still I will write, if only to pity the fool who scorns the Olympiad for taking the dive into the dozen meters of water below for playing in puddles, while they toy with the water’s surface from the coping with the tip of their pinky finger. Still I will write, though I must weep too for the monkeys that ever starve as naught a morsel of food lies on the ground yet over their heads is a tree of fresh fruits that remains disregarded, even despite their expert ability to climb

I don’t know how to write a poem about apricot rosemary ice cream and downs syndrome oysters. They both melt on the tongue with powerful differences. One churned after being picked and snipped by local fingers, served on the edge of a cliff in a cobblestone town that stands the test of time – thick houses shuttered, an empty church on fire with light inside, a pizza truck outside, the fountains of clothes-washing water, not to drink. The other plucked from the sea, shucked an

Twists and turns like melon vines, Sharp,with glistening shine under scorching heat, Adorning the fence’s concrete like a winding crown, The barbed wire runs to and fro, holding up space with a jagged blade. With rust at bends, tetanus threatening, Ripped fabric, ever terrifying, A piece of many who have dared to climb. Keep your feet safely within boots, There lays barbed wire on your fence ahead. Keep your hands fitted safely within gloves, It cuts and slashes through soft,

Arches and stations of iron and carbon! Whose callused hands welded you hence - Wiping sweaty grime from their hardened brow?