Blurrs

Blurry eyes can’t conceal what it creates —
what’s already a scene of disconnected dreams
within the mind of a fool soon revealed unto me.

With fine salt left on the rim of your wine glass,
leaving me to taste — replaced my blood at the bottom
of the barrel with blue jazz cooling over oils on wooden floors,

I danced to the beat of remembrance — holding onto an old
shadow I had seen once sitting beside a water bank —
singing a hymn of chaste cherry trees — unplucked.

Well I’ll be damned if I dare mistake
a fresh plum to its equivalent seed,
preserved between the palms of a maiden (with a prayer)

Pouring another glass all the way up — salty sweat
is now left for me to drown deep into — if only my palms would allow
my prayer to grasp another seed equivalent to flesh

and bodies that resemble my silhouette — fools
can no longer detect,
but the view amongst blurry eyes seem somewhat meaningless.

First appeared in The Underground Literary Journal, Volume 9 (Fall 2016)