Plainly Wrapped
Maurice Oliver
Words scrawled in the margin of a snapshot.
A waiter stacks chairs outside a bistro. Your
hair veiled in snowflakes. “Suppose I’m still
afraid of the dark,” she laments. More loud
cheers as it whizzes by. Trays of stethoscopes.
A turn of the knob raises the sink...
sky’s silver veins
sunlight on one wall
I wildly dash toward you
across a parched nebraska plain.
(we toss them like javelins)
the slap of waves against our ankles
a creature with olive skin & devouring eyes
Even if you play on it with rubber
tubing the floor still gets filthy again.
(our tongue tips dancing along front teeth)
