Monday, June 28, 2010

Wednesday, June 9, 2010

Dorothea Grossman


If we lived on a mountaintop,
the fog would rise up every night,
so thick you could run a comb through it.
Every morning would look like a barbershop,
with wet floors full of leftover curls.


Ten p.m.:
A sky worth waiting for.
Clouds hopping over each other
like sheep.
Before the wind picked up the pace,
when the city lights were young,
I thought to smother you with poems
from this blue
and white
and blue again