I've derived words in their dreaming being
when like wax they're white and whittled,
waiting to be outworn and witted.
How? Only seeing with the sun's slight seeming,
skimming shimmer's sheen and surface-preening,
when light just right
comes clean on my machine.
All fuzzy depths microbial
beaker's booming retreat bespeaks,
but barely etched out like candor--
in the candy cotton forgotten.
In the terse summer's fleeting
succession, you undressing,
I closely remember mine.
12 Memorable Justin Turner Moments
15 hours ago