they can't all be winners

i study her poem

line by line, word by word.

there is a lot

about

streams and valleys,

daffodils

and daisies. i

examine the bones

of it,

the meat and flesh.

i take a knife

and cut it up the middle.

i look deep into the eyes

of it

waiting for

meaning to appear, but

there is none,

which is fine.

they can't all be winners,

my dear.