Saturday, August 28, 2010

Music box lady

A quarter slipped in to her third-eye-slit:

her mouthbox creaks at the hinge, jaws
steel open: Inside--the arched way, a ballerina
turns on her toe, arm-bows drawn up
she twirls to a tune untwirling--In the fog
of the mirror, initials running

The ding of lips lidded shut.
The brass lace latched. Song folded up.

1 comment:

  1. I love this...the imagery...your poems are always a full sensory experience, allowing me to tap into multiple senses simultaneously. Dessert for the soul.