a stubborn cloud of smoke
amongst cigarette butts
and rose petals
cradling hope for the morning
when her name will be painted
in the sky
and she won't be afraid to follow
blanketed in delusion
the bottom branches of the oak
laugh, as they did when she was young.
skyscraper penthouses
kiss the clouds more audaciously
and wink in her direction.
It may be she's lost an inch or two
or maybe, at her specific
latitude and longitude
the ground sinks
until her fingertips
glance off the apple
yet still, she taunts the sea
dodging the waves
and shooting seductive looks
upwards, toward the moon
making him blush
and the tide roll in
By Zach Paulsen