beneath blue-driven snow
they travel
she finds a song to which she sweeps
things into corners
of diminishing return
and he smiles
misunderstanding
the dance
and the flutter
of possibility
flung struggling against the angle
of glass
like the creased-paper menu
from a restaurant
they once visited
now faded
in which he ordered a beer
with his scrambled eggs
and she tied the straws
in knots
Never know … I might just gather up these poems and publish them on Amazon.
Serve you right.
Hee hee.
And I would buy that too …
Your words, Kris.
They get me everytime
I … like … you.
That is all.
Misunderstanding and knotted straws.
Those things leapt out at me.
I like your poems. They make me think in pictures.
A lovely thing for words to accomplish … thank you.
I get tied in knots driving in the snow, too. I always feel like I’m in warp drive and some guy is going to yell at me that the engine has failed.
I like your projection … in the word “too.”
Very much.