Salt
There's a scatter of salt
over the polished wood table.
We plant our elbows in it,
swish curves and rims with cuffs,
make galaxies and nebulas,
whisk it from fingers and palms.
Like gods we sprinkle
planets carelessly.
The waitress clears our plates
and wipes away all trace.
So easily, our small
saltine universe erased.
over the polished wood table.
We plant our elbows in it,
swish curves and rims with cuffs,
make galaxies and nebulas,
whisk it from fingers and palms.
Like gods we sprinkle
planets carelessly.
The waitress clears our plates
and wipes away all trace.
So easily, our small
saltine universe erased.
posted by burning moon at 1:07 PM
2 Comments:
Ok, really like this one, it is simple yet it gives the reader a glimpse, a journey to travel.
Only suggestion
In S6, last strophe, consider dropping 'saltine', otherwise, no nits or crits
cheers ears. Thanks.
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