Fingernail teal, lips red, eyelid bronze and chin
reconfigured, hazel the cups
of unshed waters, forested in scents sprayed and
rubbed deep, corals on earlobes with ocean
tempered like sheep, domesticated
ideals – how about that? The paper this morning
sogged by rain, more sirens than one can bear
in the canary ridden cave. Spoons
stir sugar as they shake clear lakes
into whirlpools; one can hope and spread
foundation on the cracks, nibbling spectators all
surround the bedroom wake; she set off
ten thousand dreams ago
with new worlds in view, helm spun
in harsh winds, with such burning pull the pop
and brush of liquid beauty
eased her stinging palms.

5 thoughts on “Brush

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