She bobs in the water
pale cork, pale-haired
lily pad with tendrils in the
deep cold dark.
(Stones in her pockets,
they said later, a Virginia Woolf
rip-off.)
I see her from my bay window.
She gleams as she floats;
she startles the ducks.
I wait for the joggers to find her,
bouncing along asphalt until
they trip on the light slanting
off her.
It's early, though.
The sky is still bleary-eyed and bloodshot.
Red sky dances along the water.
Apr 1, 2011
Apr 1, 2011 at 5:36 AM UTC
She bobs in the water
pale cork, pale-haired
lily pad with tendrils in the
deep cold dark.
(Stones in her pockets,
they said later, a Virginia Woolf
rip-off.)
I see her from my bay window.
She gleams as she floats;
she startles the ducks.
I wait for the joggers to find her,
bouncing along asphalt until
they trip on the light slanting
off her.
It's early, though.
The sky is still bleary-eyed and bloodshot.
Red sky dances along the water.
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