Friday, May 24, 2019

Salt-and-Pepper Villanelle


I twist my salt-and-pepper beard,
inhale the sizzle of the grill,
then turn the meat to watch it sear.

My vision’s turned a smoky blear
of birdsong echoes sounding shrill.
I twist my salt-and-pepper beard

into a braided length of weird
and wiry time to somehow fill
then turn the meat to watch it sear.

Along the back, black stripes are smeared
like lashes struck until we’re still.
I twist my salt-and-pepper beard

and wag my head until I’ve cleared
the moonshine cobwebs twice distilled
then turn the meat to watch it sear

away the melancholy cheers
of vague potential unfulfilled.
I twist my salt-and-pepper beard
then turn the meat to watch it sear.


First appeared in THAT Literary Review

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