Tuesday, January 23, 2007


Everyday for breakfast
She had spoonfuls of sky
Nothing close or nearby
Ever seemed same again.

So in another land,
In some softly alien sea
They consent to band
In lithe experimental ties

With elongated limbs,
And buckled lungs,
Talking of walking water
Minus primness or miracle

Finding the sea suddenly
Small as a lapping pet,
Animated in assault,
Circling them for treats.

Then too soon, in ten or so days,
Their rules and goodbyes unsaid,
They fly; the red of an airline blanket
Flowers, in her lap, like a miscarriage.


No comments:


Some days are just about Huckleberry sticking out their tongue and trying to boop you on the nose.  That's all I have in me today.