In my trove of words

is the refuse of middens

and passé cliches.

Lip stained stubs

in the bitter rinds of oranges

gnawed and tossed away.

Where are my similes of stars,

my metaphor of sea oats?

Those fluttering wings of

melodramatic birds suspended

in my throat?

They are buried beneath leaves

below the chafed trunks of trees

consoling lost lovers

grieving debridement.


winter debridement from Dreamstime

Dreamstime art



81 thoughts on “winter debridement

    1. I’m a fan of surrealist André Breton having only recently discovering him through a fine writer himself , Mr Cake at the CakeorDeathSite. In the case of this poem it was written a few years ago. Thank you for your lovely comment Michel, love ❤️


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