Poetry
Sometimes a Cigar is Just a Cigar
Kathleen Hellen
I cannot see your eyes (some kind of genius)
darting. The moon accelerates. A razor.
You and I on the edge of summer,
bodies paralyzed, drifting into new deliriums.
Swans explode
every ninety minutes. Cherries cherries cherries.
Eight years later . . .
you are silhouetted in the window. The house lights on.
Two thousand priests.
Let me make it more obscure.
When you pushed, I fell.