Such pleasure we shared, though on waking, like something overheard at a cafe table. A sentence underlined in a book you’ll never reopen. One said, “Like lace,” then “ghosts”; the other, “fingers, or rivulets”—of the fine white sand that blew across the mica-blackened beach. The scrim effacing memory. The partial shedding of our bodies when at the movies.
Boyer Rickel Read Bio Author Discusses Poems
|©copyright 2004-2019, No Tell Motel. All poems ©copyright the authors.|