of sun and sand

torn,

the paper

that i’ve

ceased to

write upon

 

firmly

pressingly

patiently

merely

precisely real

 

loud outburst

save it

keep the story

below the surface

 

without compromise

without exception

absorbing the sounds of

half-finished voice

 

bouquets of stems

no false faces

no road

no trees

the everlasting new

 

another round of

ready, set, go

another round

that melts right into

the beginning

of mirror’s words

another round of measure

spoken with softer lips

 

labeled storage boxes

of sun and sand

a little black dress, dry cleaned

dancing around the face of a clock

 

dry winter hands

clever eye spots a

poor man’s art

decidedly building

on the decided

 

one egg beaten

one in the pan

four in the carton kept cold

 

when all was said and done

it left you

with better tolerance

didn’t it, allen?

me too

 

by mary ann blinkhorn