I'm holding a banana in my hand,
a bright gold one, shading toward natal red,
a strange bitter fruit, ripped from fertile land –
I hold it in my heart and in my head:
The peel pulls back like a pair of scissors
before the coming cut – the blades are dull,
however, so I use my incisors:
Similarly, the ram is shorn of its
horns, while the black sheep is lost in the pack,
until I shave off its wool and it fits
for its lack of difference (scorned as "off-track" –
though, of course, the track, too, was once savage
till "fate" cut it), and is less than average.
urbansonnets 