There’s no doubt it’s the most glamorous,
the one you reach for first—its luscious gloss.
Russian Roulette, First Dance, Apéritif, Cherry Pop.
For three days, your nails are a Ferris wheel,
Roberta P. Feins – A Species of Bramble or Thorn
In the Temple parking lot
I once kissed a greedy
drunk boy, he was sixteen,
now a rabbi.
Fred Marchant – Olive Harvest
It’s true, the tree has the scent of the sea,
——but the silver leaves, their slender fingers,
the thick, infinitely twined trunk, some riddle
——in the roots that lets it drink from the stones,