- Non-Erotic Poetry
- Reality
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It’s Sunday morning
so, I’m told
her font’s italic
sometimes bold,
Ariel or
courier new
any ol’
one’ll do,
With morning coffee
her hair undone
looking east
the rising sun,
Perplexed by
the paradox
of Doctor Fermi’s
ticking clocks,
Her evening dress
tiny, black
hung on a nail
in the back,
Of the mud room
where we undressed
used the room
labeled “guests”,
And now we contemplate
the day
Sunday, Sunday
what’da ya say?
Explores the particle / wave
duality
it beats the crap
out of reality ….
- COMMENTS
