when I read a poem like this I often turn the page.

there appears to be no texture, no colour

only the music of someone biting an apple.
when I read a poem like this,

it occurs to me that my clothes are beginning to sag,

that the neighbour’s dog is at the garbage again.
a banality as clipped as this

will surely go a long way,

it will pass from hand to hand like a fairground token,
people will express gratitude,

aware of its utility within the confines

of a place stood outside care and time.
that is the poem’s only gift to the world.