Monday, March 30, 2009


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.


Blogger burning moon said...

this one?

1:12 PM  
Blogger Chris Never said...

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

5:08 PM  
Blogger burning moon said...

cheers ears. Thanks.

10:17 PM  

Post a Comment

<< Home