Deep Thoughts · Verse

Cinq Cinquain(ish)

I.

Sunday

Abandoned by

fickle picnickers, a

raspberry contemplates self-

slaughter

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II.

White string

in a brown bag

marked “String Too Short To Use”

waits, and is comforted by

paradox

III.

Brassy

button, aloft,

cries “Ah! Am I to blame

for your plenteous circumference?

Alas!”

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IV.

Furtive

ghost, the unmailed letter –

Its baleful yellowing

chides, “Oh, but now, I would arrive

too late…”

V.

Blacked

by scratchings vain,

the match consoles himself:

”My dreams, at least, went up in smoke –

glad thought!”

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