We sit amongst
sterile walls and pulsating emotions:
The blood drips steadily, like a metronome that
Haunts and taunts us.
I pick up the paper to read words
Other than those I see screaming in your face.
''Tis not the time nor place to
Stain my face with salt.
The decision requires a discipline
That burns my eyes ...
Orifices are hot with grief,
Surreal words in black and white feel like
Impudent intruders, strangers,
Hell-bent on challenging
My covert concern and observations.
Steam rises from flaky pastry
As svelte dissections reveal
Garishly green spinach.
The contrast commands my attention -
The incessant backdrop of the
Red Sea that drips in silent meditation.
© 2006 Dianne Monnier. All