Take 42: the color

You remember the time that
we really met. Our avatars,
children attached, sort of
free, in that movie lobby?

I had to wait until now for
the feature. Jupiter’s spun
nearly twice around the sun.

Turn. Draw the space-black
curtains of your lids. Listen
in the back of your head for
this pre-production trailer:

I push my life
like a screen door,
whose shape billows

as these days repeat.
Spinnaker, husband
of the wind, sweeping
across your threshold,

scuddering over a foot-
carved stoop, wrapped
in words of eyes, hands

cradle my face rushing
past shoals, rusty coral,
then to empty ocean,
our ultramarine.

P. H. Coleman graduated a fine art BA, sold shoes and ad copy, and taught chemistry at university and high school for years. Though a PMY, he still has things to say, and has done so in obscure publications in Vermont and Missouri. He is at present safely woven into the Vermont hills with three dogs who tell him what to write.

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