Mica

 

The eyelid browses down

like a tunnel wall collapsing

in a mudslide and all

 

the automobiles and spitfire drivers

slam softly into

the crucified for slumber’s sake one man

no other way around this

 

brown blur with black in it

litter of nickels,

and dimes.

S a r a h   J .  S l o a t

 

 

 

 

 

 

copyright 2014 by Sarah J. Sloat