Box Turtle

It wore the look
of a small watermelon fallen
from October’s lime and lemon leaves
leaning in over the street.

Further into falling light
juice brightened to blood
and rind to shining shell
like broken Byzantium.

The eye feels the wheels’
purposed pleasure,
the front’s hesitant crunch
like the rolling sole on an acorn,

fine as the knife’s plunge
through green white rind
or the bullet’s champagne pop
in the paddling carapace.

By weekend the tesserae lay
like dried up peels and pulps
spotting forgotten cocktails
circling the piano’s dawn-dull lid.

Daniel Fitzpatrick lives in Hot Springs, AR, with his wife and daughter. The three enjoy micro-farming, Russian novels, and Dr. Seuss. Daniel’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The 2River View and PILGRIM.

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