Atop the box spring
Like a boat that longs
for its sunken oars,
motionless upon a river
born of dreams and shortcuts.
Spontaneity has its place,
A bus that jolts, a shattered glass,
A sudden kiss on dry pale lips,
and on a whim, it blooms into
the present and it sheers
the past from all our expectation
like my mother tending
to the rosebush and
again I have forgotten
to say I love you.
Todays best new poem was written by Michael Ceraso.
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