A citrus hangover on a humid spring
Sunday leaves her certain
she can smell the lilac bushes
on an island she used to know. What if
a bridge of land appeared above
the white caps to graft it to the cape.
She would still take the ferry. Would still hear the almost
in peninsula. She would still believe
in separation
over creation myths. And still want
to build her hotel
for pariahs on the clay
cliffs overlooking that wild
side of the Atlantic.
SUPER GREAT POEM !!!!!!
IT IS LIKE A DEEP-FRIED CANDY BAR………..TALK ABOUT POETIC CALORIES ! LOVED, “WOULD STILL HEAR THE ALMOST IN PENINSULA.”
LikeLike
Why thank you. I threw that line in at the last minute. Funny how that can turn out to be the best way to write. : )
LikeLike