Blueberry Pie

March 6, 2017

It’s the way blueberry stains your every word,

how yellow taxis decipher the subtext

 

amidst quiet dialogs of night and moonlight that

I find myself beguiled, awash in summertime’s

 

Slip N Slide, badminton strokes against deepest

embraces no orchestrated candlelight

 

can unveil. How your fragrance washes up ashore,

fingers shipwrecked on your nape, the brushing

 

away that follows all the misaligned, melting stars.

A nibble and bite to safely anchor scars to those

 

silent jukeboxes––our hearts. Warmest lips half part,

drowsy fly trap snatches at unexpected visitors

 

to reinvent the language that fashioned us once before

in the likeness of ripened blueberries

 

perched now, as if on a plate of half-eaten dessert, our

à la mode blown out beneath dancing

 

smoke signals, this crumbless dissonance reawakened,

wide world shut away until the black napkin drops.

 

Every Monday, GJC will be sharing a poem from John T. Trigonis, a local JC Heights resident, poet, writer, and coffee aficionado, in our Monday Musings.

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