or ask her of the first winter you were home?
There were tangerines in the front porch,
and the wind stayed as cold as a writer on the last page of his draft.
Polka merry dots of Christmas on her face and the fruit bowls at her place, starred with blood oranges.
I remember them as hard to peel.
How to peel the stories off a man or contain them, his depths, and grooves.
Say, a man never grows out of home, its stories, or land.
Men are twins to their land.
There were men in the sea during the first winter you were at her home,
and they haven't left for their homes,
even now as this is being read.
True. Who is a poet?
The poet is a memory, a wooden plank,
some of them held onto in the sea under that winter sun.
Allan Harold Rex
Write something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview.