Yes, "untasted" is a word. It was news to me, too.
I Don't Know What This Poem Is About
a brick wall
made of cardboard cut-outs
painted dusty and clever
illusions
made of little black dresses
all color
all texture
all opera.
daily sexual exploits
made of priestly kissing booths,
these confessionals.
purged until eyes dry
or dry up.
there is no oasis here,
but there is sand
in my underwear.
9 Hours A Day
A greenhouse is an unassuming thing. A Call-It-What-It-Is, that prayer of gratitude offered to guardian angels after slips in the shower or that phlegmy cough refusing to be caged. A greenhouse head for me, and all my thoughts called what they are, forest as my untasted soul, when seeds take hold and
roots sprout wings.
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