White Charcoal

It’s funny, maybe even tragic,

Her hands are light, but her touch is darkness,

The cards played right, nearly to the point

Of

Misconception.

After brown eyes, blue eyes are a let down  

And I, 

Gladly lie there. 

The

Horizon, is our own dead ending to cope with,

And it’s vital, maybe even meaningless,

That there are such things as white charcoal and erasable pens,

That soldiers fight with the best intentions

And the joker always has the wisest premonitions.

The wealthiest cities are refuge to the most homeless, 

Your body is warmest when the air is coldest

When poetry’s borders are faded, the wordplay is the boldest.

Did you ever think that maybe light is just a brighter shade of darkness?

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• 395 of 1974
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