By JoeyJenkins

-- MILK --

A GUSH of white - his kid hands spill their morning bowl -
sweeps out across the varnished pine; the neon waves gulp down
the knotted hull of a plastic boat whose bright husk is
wrecked to bits in oceans clean and blank, it‘s grandeur floundering upon the bank.

He looks on still, dead still, his eyes move only to observe the
pleasant spill
which pours into his lap, downwards, outwards from the sea above:
the chill, clarified and pure upon his skin, shoots a nerve,
as from a dark and apprehensive chamber, shoots a nerve
which ends, content, at home
upon the red flush of his lip, curling upward to reveal the perfect milk
of a tooth-filled smile.


Created: Mar 09, 2010


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