Stinging Nettle

Is there anything slicker
guardian of ripe raspberries
in physics or in heaven, this
come to a prick after these
but what explains leaves
healthier by a smelly stream
so many jagged modulations,
nearer the ground, nearer
the blossom, or stranded in
it matters, does it, if you’re
between it tastes like one
who knows its knowledge
isn’t, is it? Itch the bitch.

Peter Rennick


View all poems by Peter Rennick