Stood as tall as the neighboring skyscrapers, heel to toe.
The crows appeared this afternoon. Never savage.
Never cruel. Feel the beat within before shaking the rhythm out.
Counting minus nine lives. Returns back to this space as an owl. Nocturnal, we can no
but we still feel. Troubadours.
Transverse the points in a diagonal line pointing upwards.
Preface to a Triangle
A formulaic response, prosaic in nature, simple in form. The angles cannot form ridges. The sides cannot permeate. He will not speak to her softly. She will not respond back. The ravine in the backyard overflows in his mind. She refuses to continue the thought process. The desire to create a lake from the ravine becomes idealistic. She transfers his patterned words into a more legible text. His thinking smears before them.
Smog. The color of his dirty feet after barefoot marks all day. Never notices that. Never sees the discoloration. The toes bend sideways—slowly opposing farther from the body. Her hair, curled locks of persimmon, drop a half inch from left toe. His right foot shifts in mechanical response. The definition is limitless. She will forget to buy socks tomorrow.
The lyrical correspondence begins in his nostrils. Breath self-regulates before lips parts ways. They would rather write each other abbreviated notes. A foreign language created for the pair. More simple than speech. More simple than meaning (less) words spoken (before) by many.
The utterance of unknown vernacular forges root before giving seed. Not topographical. The couple sitting at the next bench turn to gaze in unison. One might expect bad music begin to chime in with out of tune chords and poor phrasing for a B-List Cinema Reel. She wishes that the situation could be more black and white. Translucent to egg-shell-cream. She seldom realizes her inner strength. Fists clenched. Elbows bent.
Parallelograms arranged before the audience. The pair of strangers in the background seldom pay attention to their surroundings. The wilted oak leaf on the ground appears more interesting than the flesh juxtaposed.
Suzanne Savickas is the founder of Le Pink-Elephant Press, as well as the print journal, A Trunk of Delirium. Her work has appeared in Oranges and Sardines, 13 myna birds, and Monkey Puzzle, among others. She is currently working on a manuscript of poems based on photographer, Cindy Sherman's Untitled Film Stills. Suzanne lives and writes in Cleveland, Ohio.