Books
Poetry/Lyrics
Essays
Popcorn
Hot corn smells,
hand deep in the crowd of kernels
that rattle and chatter,
like cells awaiting impulse.
Cold, and crisp.
Tooth hard, and saltless.
Dead, awaiting sun,
the scented yellow waves.
The laser touch of God,
to penetrate the husk,
with gentle words,
connections,
exchanges,
like waltzing swifts,
in rapid cycle that explode to horizon.
The black knife,
of this dawn,
painted with love,
and popcorn.
|
