Lyn Lifshin

Awaiting Alma

Like March, something
thaws, catches its
breath.  I think of
blown glass giraffes
a heart beat could shatter

someone waits for her
breath, for the words to
be skin, her eyes
obsidian flowers

Someone can almost taste
her hair, has memorized
rose bud lips

They touch her photograph
the way you touch moonlight

more by Lyn Lifshin