Iridescent Kites

Instead of slumber ,
she mends nouns and interjections,
weaving in conjunctions.


Phrases crochet’d at seams;

her similies aren’t what they seem.


Few moths bicker.

As the street lights flicker .


Dappled light on her notepad.

Ink smudges ‘tween her fingers. (one stray spot beside her chapped rose lips)
Lips pressed tight ,
Brow furrowed on her right .
She writes about iridescent Kites .


Flying high ,

(Way above little girls and fireflies )
Zipping past strips of cirri.
(Irked by a sun that will never rise)


Brushes and blotches

Of a hazy grey
Large looming masses
Of purple and clay
Gather at horizon.( near, but not too close )



for now the the little kite
flies happy cartwheels;
(A sun that will never rise )
Just like a little girl
who rubs her cold brittle feet.


Few moths bicker.

As the street lights flicker .