by Jnana Hodson
Through unemotional contempt
where the dipping bowl ferments
Emma assumed I’d been spilling Chardonnay
over my watercolor field notes.
I didn’t buy tarot-card insurance
behind a Sumerian bronze disk
no matter what I dominated
in a beaker of green-flame transmutations.
Instead, we distilled wicked superstitions to a formula
resembling a reflecting pool where you spun
torpidly against the shrouded bullfrogs,
free of the paper deck the lady fanned before us.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Well done Ben!!!
ReplyDelete