Open to All Kenneth Pobo


In the back yard
on the fence
they lie on leaves,
Indian pottery,
no two alike,
some with fat bottoms,
vegetable Buddhas,
others twisty-
o and elegant.
Even in December
when they fall
they melt over soil,
completely original.
but you can gather
up the stragglers,
shake them to hear
the rattling
of paper clips,
bring them in
at dawn, frost
in crevice lakes
melting, gourds
laughing till they roll
off the shelf.
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