Remembrance of things imperfect

It is the middle of a sunny summer day
I am running down the stairs
quickly and excitedly, with my neighbours following me.

We all want to see the Sun
It just fell down in the front yard
I saw it coming down like an overripe cantaloupe,
staining the sky with sticky, succulent golden juices.

There it is,
lying on the ground,
a giant orange, trampling the grass it landed on,
squirting its warm essence all over our bodies.

The neighbourhood dogs are running around,
barking at this strange visitor.
I approach it warily. I touch it.

It is warm and beautiful,
glistening in the mid-noon light.
I remember well the feelings of amazement, incredulity,
inexplicable joy overwhelming me
and the comical expressions of confusion
on the faces of my neighbours.

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About Admin

BORIS GLIKMAN is a writer, poet and philosopher from Melbourne, Australia. The biggest influences on his writing are dreams, Kafka and Borges. His stories, poems and non-fiction articles have been published in various online and print publications, as well as being featured on national radio and other radio programs.

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1 Comment

  1. thank you Cindy, much appreciate you publishing my poem.

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