"The wind rustles the forget-me-nots In the many balcony flower boxes And so the shrieks of foxes lose their distance."
She’s inside, finding her bearings. Fiddling her earrings around. ******* cardamom pods White. And smoking licorice black cigarettes Her lips faintly popping as the smoke escapes,
Pop,
And reflecting how she’s been As lucky as lavender isn’t.
"the wind sharpens the beach dunes flutters my tangerine towel,"
Pop, pop,
"fills my little girl's glitter-gel shoes"
No,
Pop
She rubs it out before she sets it down, sharpening her eraser. Settling her glass no chaser.
Her cigarette smokes on its own in the ashtray a straight grey line caught in the breezes from the door frame and under the floorboards, like a seismograph recording of a dancer’s hips or like any sound man could ever consider making, escaping up to heaven from the tip of Babel.
She takes back her black *** Before any more paper evaporates.
-Light- Pop, pop
Her poems are great shipping tanker oil spills of vowels, hoping the reader feels their lips mouthing kisses along with it.
Pop
"no one ever really tastes one another on theirs, or saliva, so weak weak as the smell of potent *****."
Now the wind's at the window, disturbing a spider abseiling slowly and inevitably as falling snow
Pop
into the ashtray. A lifetime of weary acceptance of tragedy.
-Stub-
Playing with page placement, I wanted people to imagine there was a line of cigarette smoke running straight up it's center, or a spider abseiling down on a thread, separating the real from the poem.