Sally Martin Ii
The bags that sag under glassy eyes are purple
black. His face is downward drawn with pencil neck
and bow bent back. Devoid of chest a mass of thinly muscled
bone and flesh. He strokes Mary Martin at a soirée
by the garden wall. She sings lilacs to hummingbirds
as rainbows rise and fall. She whispers wonders wrapped
in riddles wove in layers, her looks, her touch, her smell,
at a soirée by the garden wall.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
