The tornado I knew as Sharon left after a brief
appearance. Her grey eyes romantic to me,
a pilgrim who worked in a barn near flowers
and the cornfield, the shacks sleeping.
I wish I had wings, I wish I could shimmer:
then she might have stayed. She thundered
when I compared her to a beautiful storm,
a tortuous wind breaking hundreds of hearts.
Sharon called me a dumb devotee of Apollo,
punched me so hard I saw linnets on the ceiling,
making me regret I owned a telescope.
Sad that she now might wear diamonds,
I can only sing hymns to her in school,
but sometimes she appears to me
in dreams as a wild palomino.



David Spicer has had poems in Yellow Mama, Reed Magazine, Slim Volume, The Laughing Dog, Jersey Devil Press, The American Poetry Review, New Verse News, Ploughshares, Bad Acid Laboratories, Inc., Dead Snakes, and in A Galaxy of Starfish: An Anthology of Modern Surrealism (Salo Press, 2016). He has been nominated for a Pushcart, is the author of one full-length collection of poems and four chapbooks, and is the former editor of Raccoon, Outlaw, and Ion Books. He lives in Memphis, Tennessee. For further views of his works see Poetry Life & Times &
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