Kevin Varrone is a slam-dunk poet from Philly. I’ve been riffing off him for a while. Here’s one for public consumption:
now is when we eat the seeds of things. paw out pumpkin entrails. bite Jonagold’s bitter pips, sequestered in yellow flesh. roll them glossy on the tongue. want the marrow, core and all. coffee’s black grounds, gritted winter dregs at the bottom of the cup. swallow the long season. drink its nutmeg and camphor, the wood smoke hung like tinsel. walk what hills you have. slide a pocket blade behind brittle bark. mark the supple skin. taste its beech gum, the hint of molasses long tapped out.