From the verses of Shakespeare to the violence of Football, a soft hand on the nape of my neck to a rim's hard rattle after a dunk, the mute of Miles to the rhymes of Rakim, Hershey's chocolate to a garlic peppered, cedar-planked salmon, Joel Dias-Porter's thoughts scatter like grains of black sand across a wind-blown beach.
Friday, September 21, 2012
Outside My Window
All night long
waves trying to wash her
prints from the beach.
And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)
No comments:
Post a Comment