Nov 23
Yellow Sweater's picture

The Always Edge

The unconvertible have closed themselves to spring,
to dying.  

I watch the cornflowers. 

Wind and gull cries 
pull the flowers from themselves, 
until they are only blue. 

Our lips move to a Bossa Nova beat, 
melancholy and consistent
as we stare at the sea. 

The salt tastes sour.