She glides through Manhattan
like the misplaced tooth of a glacier,
smiling goat’s milk and Ricola,
haystack ponytail strewn behind,
her mind wandering the spruce
forests of the suicide philosophers.
Sapphire cicada-shell encrusts
icy freshness in robin’s egg;
thatch plaid skirt stretches pulsing
drumskin across thighs;
while blue stockings restrain
counter-explosion of calves.
Five and one-half inches of snowcap knee
peak between sky brilliance of hem and sock
as she turns her sensible black heel
away from Dante’s statue.
She smiles an ancient snowmelt,
eyes brimming August tea
through fused icecube lenses.
0 postscripts:
Post a Comment