One, a willow tree
Two, a cello
Three, a basket of plums.
They are not ripe,
not yet,
but
they will be.
The cello
makes the air
afraid
of pretty
things.
Come
over here,
you young girls.
Show us your necks,
and the insides
of your
wrists.
Joan Fleming is a pretty thing that writes pretty things about pretty things that makes other pretty things feel pretty things. She is wildly read, widely published [Snorkel, Takahe, Blackmail Press, Turbine, and The Same as Yes - VUP], wryly charmed, and Derrida-ly ensorcelled, inveigled, beguiled, wowed by the poetics of iterability.
As always, click on the icon below to see some more alluring, enticing, mystifying poetry.
