Skewing Toward the Sky

This poem is a fair
…….(maiden)
in a bright tower,
sticky with cotton candy
clouds and crowds
of dark (k)nights in
dashing star-spilled skin.

She’s in it for the pop
-corn, you know, the equality
that only comes from tumbled
things and strings and strands
of crunch. She’s as neutral

(balmy, sunny, pleasant un
-biased) as it gets, until she lets
that tangerine fireball get under
her skin. She’ll win

you a prize, if you stay long
enough. Hang tough as she
hollers blue expletives out
the window, makes a scene this poem
………of storm.

Her new normal is
a gable
(a gamble,
a tablescrap-scramble)
above the rest. A test of whim
and will. A spill of sigh and song.

Can you see her flaxen light?
She’s a sprite, a ghost. A
middling-middle-most
mad and moonly boast of
midnight rain.

If you’ve gotten quite
whisperclosenow
and you still can’t tell,

Then
fair
thee
well.

 

..
Written for Poetic Asides. 

 

 

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