Poem of the Week: Eighteen Opals

In the clearing between things a flamingo flies over Moose.

Having few bridges, the geology of Isle Royale is similar.

In agreeing to disagree, pink and black and blue ink cue

a walk on. The icon is pale. The veil is bitter.

Sugar skulls flicker next to lemon scented glass.

This grass is your green imagination. Cedar seems earnest.

The day glitter metal did not die. Cream is contrived. Yet

I wore a dress tropical! Jewel at its ear. You’re my confetti.

I’ll bring you fists. I’ll elect one to Beulah. Plum blossoms

in a fog bait one season word. Yellow leaves the smell of fire

organ notes. The buttery disdain Tuesday for reasons best

set in balloons. The pure joy of the emerald facts documents

a mine, a dime method on a lime rug reflected upside down. 


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