Neon crickets are humming tiny jingles.
A soup bowl moon is crammed with cream of mushroom
light.
Beer bottles strung about the bedroom floor are brimming
with hopeful bubbles.
Delores and Clarence are resting,
nestled in magazines
unfurling a thick orthoscopic joy through the shiny rims of
their glasses.
Above them, below them, between them, within them is the
tangled daytime talk show we call love.
No comments:
Post a Comment