[wpaudio url=”/audio/march13/Sandra.mp3″ text=”listen to this poem” dl=”0″]
 
I can’t stop picking you like a bump,
rubbing till you’re red, rushing to see,
out to sea one more time, can’t drop you
like a hot potato, a split green
tomato left in the garden too
long with a slug who tunnels through and
moves on under the next leaf curling
to brown, summer again come winter.