an avocado
either
the flat slice
the underside of a treble clef
wobbly in your fingers
with a little mush,
tapering to pale green, like
the sunset in one’s hand,
beneath the skin of a dinosaur,
its whole pearlikeness a big prying eye,
or scoops
dealing with the
superball of a seed
that plops out, ready
to be cultivated anew, or
idle as a puzzle thing of wood—
it’s regularly badly spelt
“avacado”
like some caped superman,
or ’av a nice day
someone once told me
you were full of fat
but no,
you just look like you’ve got a bellyful
under that dinosaur skin.
Marcus Ten Low
dancing on my smartphone
doting, pretty girls,
their hair streaming long,
flow effluently from my scrolling
smartphone
into this world,
one by one, dancing, swaying
from the hips, going over the edge
or who, with the backsmudge of a finger,
come squiggling back
into view, as they smile
from their plane of color and light:
this horizon of information,
this slim trim majesty,
fills my senses with joy and fuzz,
until i drop it and it
clatters, shudders, to the ground.
this time it drops
facedown, the girl’s face speckled
in grit,
but even with the sudden jolt
to silence…she smiles bravely on.
Marcus Ten Low