Caramel sutra. Or if you prefer, the sprinkle of cinnamon and salt.
I could build a igloo from the ice blocks sweating in the glass.
Its curved roof would explain something about where I am from.
People swarm around like fish, nibble the tips of my ears, the edges
of my toes. I am not for taking home, flakes of me. Translucent.
Next, I’ll be feeding me to the ducks like gravel, the necessity
of clam shells. Once I woke up after the black sand belt
and found myself picking glass from my cherried knees.
True, the sun folds itself off the water without harming
the blue but there are different kinds of burning. Not to say
I’m fierce but you might want to construct a pinhole
if you’re going to look at me that long.
When you ask me who I am, I say read this poem.
It’s okay that you don’t understand it.
Or if you do, bring your mouth, your needle.
Sew the open shut.
Bind the hems of my fingers to the seam of your lips.
There will be time later for talking, after the melt.
Image taken with iphone.
Words written at Crema with a Caramel Sutra Latte.
Ears On Sunday, Sunday, Sunday.
Time Taken five minutes.
Brain On tonight I read at Powell’s. Free book giveaways. A million and six other things.