Ilona's Eyelids

A fondness for the concept of holy water.
Doll-stroller, escalator noon. To dip
the tip of a finger in slowness,

cotton shift unwrinkled, to wash
the sleep from a worried face, to bargain
down, to pay.

Infrequently are rumors meant
to ruin one’s complexion. Flicker on,
distorted tune. Fabricate,

unravel. The comely altar girl
waits, trips at the door of grace.
Wide open country. Newfound shipyard.

To rest here without reservations
takes a mean martini. To slip
into light, to dress

one’s salad well, a close encounter.
A fake boat, bereft of sound.
The soft, cold lips of belief.

Copyright © 2009 Eileen G’Sell All rights reserved
from American Poetry Journal
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission