Opened-Brain Option
Don’t take this for granted:
it is the unique that keeps us interested.
That Donna Karan dress
was worn as an emerald
sheath, its sheer illusion
floating as pelicans do,
bloated and unsure.
In his gait, lazy
heels scrubbed
unnerved passers-by.
Those whispers on the west
side of South Street
elude their disposition
and sit quietly atop the
neglected washing basin,
the mailman as unclean
as this disposal that
grinds the maggot-rot to
shoehorn more untruths.
Understand:
when the slender silhouettes
of the cypresses slant
in protest of the
breeze, drawing
the mouth-line of
uncertainty against
the raven night,
stars dot the eyes
like glitter in the silver
shadowed crevice
below the drawn brow,
his red lips lift into
a “U.”
Disgrace belongs only
to the others.
(Later, the owners
will collect those once
whispers, lie them on
their pillows, with idle
motors— unspeakably
intrigued.
Like Picasso’s,
“Skull and Pitcher.”)
Brandy Adams
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