Sunday, January 27, 2013
A pebble rolls down with a purple rattle partly drawn
from the bouncy bouncy bouncy joy of slate corrupted
with shallow pocks from years of hard rain and freeze-
down where streets drift downhill past yellowed weeds,
its horizontal vein of cancrinite turning orange cartwheels
hypnotically (and now you are in another time where)
past bare white houses where breaths are rarely taken
seriously if you want to cut a fresh hard roll than arch
your thumb and pointer and keep the blade underneath.
The bread is white soft and you are so courageous
when a pebble rolls down.
Posted by Gerry Boyd at 1:21 PM