Glass: A Journal of Poetry Volume One Issue Three
Pink toenails change everything
Even sitting on the stoop,
barefoot, sun slant-wise and
low, black squirrels stuffing
red fruits beneath
the Kousa dogwood. Even
here, even eyes
can grow lazy, forget to
bow or curtsy
to the passing of a day.
Bumblebees
woozy, tipping back into
scarlet trumpets, and tiny gnats
like motes of dust
anointed by the light. Listen:
this is not the same old story.
Even the sun, setting; the
light. Even the cat
looking back – once, twice –
to check the
starlings by the fencepost.