When it was all over, I looked at the dot with a tail curling on the inside of my wrist.
“Why did you want a comma?” the artist asked, cleaning their tools….
field brown is dingy
grass is achingly green…
I hear
my words swirl
into the air…
sometimes you write a poem
on a tissue…
I am the bridge suspended…
or did I get so many goose bumps…
2 tastes like sun-warmed
garden peas scooped directly from pod…
Here, let me give you
a butterfly net…
the eyebrows and the eyelashes
are out of order,
the moon is pock-marked,
I’m standing on a tilting plane…
sky’s set of angel wings –
are they clouds that look like ribs…
Daily Poets 