Green blades reflect the shine
of crescent moons. Where chilled
globes cling to the lip of the cup,
a red ridged stain hovers but cannot
quite leap to the creased page
in your diary. While both
sheets of crinkled foil cover both
eyes of the waitress, sunshine
cannot discolor that page.
Croaking frogs condense the chill
till it clatters and crashes not
two feet in your hands cupped.
That foreign chin shaped like a cup's
curved cusp narrows both
into a river and a knot
of tangled trees. Shining
marble eyes swivel toward chilly
drafts. You turned that page.
Untether the swollen pager
throbbing in sync with hiccups.
Your hands flake from the chill
like melting ice, peeling bark, or both.
Beads of moisture shudder and shine
along collars of leaves not
buttoned too tight. Nothing
like red ink swims laps on the page.
A glistening ruby's shine
splits into kaleidescope cusps.
A comet and a crayon both
smear across the night's chill
leaving white powder residue. Chili
bubbles on top an archaic stove not
covered. Feathers evaporate from both
the birds they came from and the pages
their quills glided upon. Moon shine
permeates through the gauze of foggy cups.
Flipping like windmills, both pages
act like shiny rotors clipping cups
not full of air but of chilled gasps.