inlet sunset

tingling needle points tickle the soles of
my feet, as your attempts at skipping
rocks fail. They succeed, though in creating
pulsing rings that uspest the mirror,
in which a second sky, one smooth as
brass, and in constant movement resides.

The only way to catch the sunlight,
and hold it for hours, like in a fishing
net, is to summon up the clouds to do
your bidding. They look like the day's
last breath, hovering just above the trees,
clinging to the air like words do in winter.

I take a stone from your hand, bouncing
it from palm to palm, testing its weight.
Maybe I could hit the sun I say,
looking into your eyes. Try you say but
you'll have to move quick, only half is left.
I pull my arm back, hard, and throw

the gray pebble, it disappears, with no
business being in such an array of color,
on such a July day, when the air
smells of salt and something else.
It disappears and we never see where it
lands. There are no rings disturbing the sky.


Okay, so I'd like to know if you like it, but I want you to tear it to shreds. This is workshop, tell me what you hate, tell me what to change. This poem is crap, tell me why.

Heather