Poetry

Inertia Redux

by

Stephanie Clauson

Mornings that hold choices have no color.
Burnt toast and banana skins,
flaccid like a boneless hand and turning
gray--

beautiful filth.

Song without a story
poison apple sleep

marking miles, rivers winding down to sea
through dirty windows--

colored lights and sparkle
clothe disease.

Did I answer when you said
(my heart beat like a fist)
my face burst like a bulb in coffee bubbles
before it turned to stone?

In some attic there s a picture of my heart
grown prettier each day.