June Snow

June Snow

Living in perspective, lines never meet.

It is such a contrast, the wall, not the wall,

the description on the wall beside

the work of art at the gallery—a pimple

on a perfect nose. I used to burn holes

in a styrofoam cup. One I just finished

drinking warm mock chicken soup out of,

then every few seconds take a big haul

off that smoke—du Maurie King Size,

the one I burnt the holes with. I did this

in a public place at a time when people

where friendly and a loose brush stroke

was not accompanied with a perfect

description as a reminder of beauty.

When it is all over and given a choice

I would come back as a cottonwood

and fall in love all over again.