poetry

Freshly Ground

Her eyes curl into my head

it is another morning of black toast,

firefighters spraying our radio

the cat rakes up its bones in a

ball of basket, under the

purring kettle.

ย 

The newspaper (back and forth)

dotted lanes and columns of chaos

The look again, more like

a glower of frayed toast, halting me:

a reporter-arresting posture

ย 

it spills then (her hair) into

the sink like fine zinc-teeth

dangling on ends.

ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย  I move to the

window that whispers an ebb

of sunlight on her face, and aโ€ฆ

smile as thick as a crust.

ย 

ย 

ย 

ย 

PhilosopherPoet

ย 

*May The Muse And Plato juice Be With You*

ย 

ย 

ย 

Advertisements
Standard

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s