The glory all see shining from inside her life hides from her own eyes.
Rain falls on an empty park bench, an umbrella floats in a puddle.
He rested his head on her memory, the only trace she left for him.
His conscience was the critic sitting in the audience of his life.
She slides her finger across the spines of books on her shelf, deciding.
She refuses to accept a rose without the thorns - and the blood they draw.
We can leave clues to find our way back - if staying lost together fails.
All she would ever be to him was marvelous, distant perfection.
With a torch in his hand, he lined up the straw men for execution.
It's been a while since I've stopped in at the Poets Pub. I'm glad I swung the pub doors open today when I saw that Gay Reiser Cannon had presented us the task of writing some American Sentences. Perfect. I've been experimenting writing American Sentences on Twitter since I stumbled across them in the same book that Gay referred to, Kim Addonizio's Ordinary Genius, A Guide for the Poet Within. I've found this form of seventeen syllables to be less restrictive than haiku and a great way to launch creative thoughts when I feel stuck for a longer form.
©Eusebeia Philos 2013