beyond the 10-hour-glass-front
(knotty-legged in this familiarly backstabbing seat)
an ocean of rye, harboring
this groggy wooden chair, tilting drunkenly;
young poppy blossom on tiptoe, reaching
to lend a delicate hand to the Seasoned ~
the bus crescendoed, sputtering,
and your eyes grew distant.
“I never liked olives,” you said that evening,
and flicked the black through liquid gold, bumping
into its younger brother,
like marbles on chipped china.
wild capers scrambled through
the cracks of shattered amphorae, nested
in a jungle of vines ~ you took
a sip of ruby red & I
saw the aaaaah in your eyes, lips sealed in a secretive smile ~
in a matter of minutes, we found ourselves
in the Garden of Eden.
Written for Karin Gustafson’s prompt over at dVerse. Today, we’re doing Poetics Italian Style. So good to be back… grab a pen and join us at the bar!