Geri

The ocean is swallowing the sun. 

Maybe, 

like steak, 

it needs to marinate. 

Maybe, 

like soup, 

it needs to simmer. 

Or, maybe, 

Love is an abstract painting: 

Colors convey a feeling but not an idea 

the frame barely holds it together and the lines 

trail outward, repeat, and redouble 

Light is lobbed to the leaves and they cradle it 

In the evening they throw it back to the sun 

whose tendrils collect it 

then go home 

I think peace looks like:  

driving on the highway from College Park  

listening to “White Ferrari” 

by Frank Ocean