Plainly Wrapped
Maurice Oliver

Words scrawled in the margin of a snapshot.

A waiter stacks chairs outside a bistro. Your
hair veiled in snowflakes. “Suppose I’m still
afraid of the dark,” she laments. More loud
cheers as it whizzes by. Trays of stethoscopes.
A turn of the knob raises the sink...

sky’s silver veins
sunlight on one wall

I wildly dash toward you
across a parched nebraska plain.

(we toss them like javelins)

the slap of waves against our ankles
a creature with olive skin & devouring eyes

Even if you play on it with rubber
tubing the floor still gets filthy again.

(our tongue tips dancing along front teeth)

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