strolling city sidewalks, shoulders trailing
behind us, low and smooth as milk
down marble stairs. This day
the leaves in the trees are scratching
the flaking backs of each – responding
to prompts put forth in parched voice, given
over for intepretation by the breeze. This after
noon, the cars idle by – boy fingers curled
pink and white around the last
inch of open window, studious faces lick lips
in concentration
– a drip of sweat skimming her
sunburned nose like honey.
jenifer.wills 
September 11th, 2012 at 11:37 pm
Very nice.
September 12th, 2012 at 7:36 am
Thank you very much.
September 12th, 2012 at 8:59 am
I love the title of your poem . . . ”Given / over for interpretation by the breeze” Perfect line. I like the last two lines a lot, too, though I’m not sure skimming and honey go together.
How is your day going? It is a beautiful day in Astoria: one of the last ones of the year.
Bob
Dream Song 29 by John Berryman There sat down, once, a thing on Henry’s heart só heavy, if he had a hundred years & more, & weeping, sleepless, in all them time Henry could not make good. Starts again always in Henry’s ears the little cough somewhere, an odour, a chime. And there is another thing he has in mind like a grave Sienese face a thousand years would fail to blur the still profiled reproach of. Ghastly, with open eyes, he attends, blind. All the bells say: too late. This is not for tears; thinking. But never did Henry, as he thought he did, end anyone and hacks her body up and hide the pieces, where they may be found. He knows: he went over everyone, & nobody’s missing. Often he reckons, in the dawn, them up. Nobody is ever missing.
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September 12th, 2012 at 9:53 am
That is eerie.
It’s beautiful here also. Really, really beautiful.
You may be correct about the skimming and the honey. Yes, I think you may be correct about that one. Good suggestion, thank you, Mr. Brown. ;)
Jen
January 15th, 2013 at 3:56 am
i like your writing.