The Innisfree Poetry Journal

by Daniel Bourne


They talk of onions
But it is the Sprout of Brussels,
Green ingénue, whose layers
Delect the palate.

Peeling back the veils,
Each fluffy,
Green scarf
Perfumed and charred—
So who can blame me

That I save the heart for last?

Noah’s Ark

Of course all the animals were babies—

that way the atlas bear

would not molest the auroch

and the quagga

would not kick Ham, bruising

his already dark skin.   
                                   But let’s not

get too smart with this.  Think

of the dove
s partner, 

when it flew back.

The olive branch not just a sign of land

but of love. In just forty nights, I beg you,

how much they had grown!

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