|
|
This weather is so weird.
Dazzled dry flakes
on a precipice of green
that the sun splays on the rim
of eye
glasses.
Dissolves slowly behind the veil
on a shredded napkin
in the far ahead sector
of the poem’s understanding
til it’s as liquid as a tear
which is mostly salt.
Out of the crumbs
make a saltine
that could just be snow sparkling
until dissolved
in the future which comes in
through the orthogonal doorway. |
|