how much is too much? the anatomy of a driving car a mandolin with no rain at eleven, my lover’s a moon his favorite t-shirt’s yellow he spills coffee on the eggshells of the great cosmic mystery this might not sound significant but it could be if pigeons were paragons of infinite sadness if rainbows were plastic alphabets building highways across our windshields
At Eleven, My Lover’s a Moon
The Used Life 
4 responses to “At Eleven, My Lover’s a Moon”
he spills coffee
on the eggshells
of the great cosmic mystery
How wonderful!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you so much!
LikeLiked by 1 person
I love the picture…a dancer in the waves of the cosmic mystery…so beautiful. And “at eleven, my lover’s a moon, his favorite t-shirt’s yellow, he spills coffee on the eggshells of the great cosmic mystery” is such a wonderful descriptive visual…the moon wearing its yellow t-shirt, spilling over me…over the world.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you! It was a fun little poem to write. I’m happy you liked the imagery.
LikeLike