The Littlest Sin

Dawn, and the plum blossoms beaten
to earth by last night’s rain
lie scattered and soaked
on the concrete. A newspaper left
on a folding chair’s slick lemon seat
appears to have fused together.

Inconsequential images?
I wonder. Maybe secrets I should carry
through the long press of traffic

tucked like snuff between lip and gum
for the slow, bitter pleasure,
the minor addiction

that helps me stay sober and honest,
that helps keep me sane.


Hear it:



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