Eric Bragg
Two apples lay in the corner of my mouth, relishing the humidity.
Rose bud cheeks dripping with soiled promises
like the fairest climes where wandered the dainty knight.
Wandering in a pool of stagnant fish, a woman in a black veil
smokes the whiteness of eggshell skies.
In fire from ice, she floats… they always float when black worms
slowly crawl under a thin blanket of snow,
digging in front of the copper mine for green-red oysters.
The medieval Clancy coat-of-arms bears
the sharp teeth of the predator over a bamboo shield,
a pitiful glimpse at what should have been a smile, a gathering of sparks.
Tender yeast fishhooks race through low tides.
Nothing moves me like the toy piano, sifting through ambergris.