my feet suck mud-
articulating sweet brown sugar
between my toes.
with each restless tabla (drum)
my feet release night's keepsake-
crushed brown grapes
churned into riverwine-
somewhere between black faith
and green, that dangerous hour,
that bruises a molasses wind.


m said...

I kind of sense a loneliness in there, maybe it's the mention of dangerous hour, I don't know, I think I read too much into things

Shawna said...

I wonder what a molasses wind feels, smells, tastes like :)

Shawna's Study Abroad

sarah said...

This is great. I love the title.

Pam said...

Those last three lines are amazing. I really enjoyed reading this one-- made me want to go find something soft and squishy.

Crafty Green Poet said...

very vivid descriptions here, I love the molasses wind...

theaccidentalnovelist said...

what lovely language, Michelle. I agree with Pam, the last three lines in particular.