John North

Three Poems

Fennel

I rub fennel between my fingers
and some is taken up in the breeze.
I take it up to my mouth

and chew. It is like aniseed, a universe.
And so the Benedictine draws
for his botanica

and here is my tongue;
I suggest taste is a dialogue
between man and God –

I still suggest it.
How the taste has not changed
in a thousand years.

Or perhaps it has a little,
moment by moment, here, or heaven,
for it too is written.

 

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