Marilyn, at the border of sun and sand
a

spits in the wind, unfurls her wig,

the sting of salt still on her breath

as she kneels – so poised – her cane in hand.

It’s a blue day today – and tomorrow – and on

for as long as the waves eat up the shore –

as long as the pause from line to line –

as short as the span from eye to eye.

Somewhere still between her ears –

her robot brain, her phantom jaw –

remains a world of stiff repose

where we tread lightly – a sheer plateau.

For fear of falling out of bed

we write verse in sand instead.

Marilyn, at the border of sun and sand
a

spits in the wind, unfurls her wig,

the sting of salt still on her breath

as she kneels – so poised – her cane in hand.

It’s a blue day today – and tomorrow – and on

for as long as the waves eat up the shore –

as long as the pause from line to line –

as short as the span from eye to eye.

Somewhere still between her ears –

her robot brain, her phantom jaw –

remains a world of stiff repose

where we tread lightly – a sheer plateau.

For fear of falling out of bed

we write verse in sand instead.