Bacon
It’s burned.
The bacon is too crisp.
The weather is mushy
and the bacon is too crisp.
The cheese is running
all over the burned bacon.
It’s burned.
The bacon is too crisp.
It must be Monday.
Hard Edges
When the path has no hard edges
I stray
lose myself, loosen myself
remolded into desert sand’s giant ripples
or cooled with the clarity
of farm-pond shallows
or I unwind
as curled bright green ferns
off the pavement off the road
in the warm summer dust
when the path has no hard edges
Cleo Griffith has been on the Editorial Board of Song of the San Joaquin since its inception twenty years ago. Widely-published, she lives in Salida, California. Her poems have recently appeared in Wild Roof Journal, Lothlorien and POEM.
It’s burned.
The bacon is too crisp.
The weather is mushy
and the bacon is too crisp.
The cheese is running
all over the burned bacon.
It’s burned.
The bacon is too crisp.
It must be Monday.
Hard Edges
When the path has no hard edges
I stray
lose myself, loosen myself
remolded into desert sand’s giant ripples
or cooled with the clarity
of farm-pond shallows
or I unwind
as curled bright green ferns
off the pavement off the road
in the warm summer dust
when the path has no hard edges
Cleo Griffith has been on the Editorial Board of Song of the San Joaquin since its inception twenty years ago. Widely-published, she lives in Salida, California. Her poems have recently appeared in Wild Roof Journal, Lothlorien and POEM.