Today's poem is by Lesley Wheeler


Samaras, sticky tender things, helicopter
down in the diluted light of seven-fifteen
on Monday night; paint blues the front porch steps;
air cools off like a troubled friend; a car engine
shifts pitch in the distance, on the way to someone who's
not sure she loves him; wind in the branches hisses
like water; you text him and text him, not sure
you ought to; lilacs are dark as half-clenched fists;
starlings complain that no one missed them; a red
hexagon glows at the end of the block; taillights
bleed and can't quite stop; the mountain steeps purple
in sunset's flame and is mirrored in vacant
window frames; blossom's leaving, leaf remains.

Copyright © 2016 Lesley Wheeler All rights reserved
from Radioland
Barrow Street Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission

Support Verse Daily
Sponsor Verse Daily!

Home    Archives   Web Weekly Features    About Verse Daily   FAQs  Submit to Verse Daily   Follow Verse Daily on Twitter

Copyright © 2002-2016 Verse Daily All Rights Reserved