by kvennarad

She chose to leave her lover the way

the wind leaves the sea murmuring a

steady complaint, the sea’s constancy


having worn the cobble bank into its

roundness and danced the buoyed

boats from that evening to morning.


Kissing a statue proves how colder

alabaster is. The crows dance, pirates

at a wedding, not quite raw enough


nor drunk. “Believe me – this is an old

story!” 5:29. Booted, suited, and ready

for town, the cross-flow cowgirls board


the train, sit, click, and are buried deep

in copies of Pomes Penyeach that slip up

a page with the ease of a finger. Ah, to be


a writer, to assault a keyboard, to turn

staccato into sense. This is no place for a

good girl to be; the fox is on the town-o.


jupiterThe fruit of the good is the little of the lyrical. ©Marie Marshall