Poetry / Sliver

It's half-lidded whispers,
aural artifacts mouthed by
drowsing eyes.
(someone took the name
of my favorite flower and
made her real)
It's the coarse grain on the
heel or hand,
the will you, won't you,
and where am I?
It's the moon scything through
the cumulus while bare feet
idly kick at the tide
sneaking up under
a summer-side pier.

Reviews

August 01, 2009

oknapp

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Age	Gender	Location	Last Login
47	F	Salem, IN	November 21

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