Color Field Spacer prose poems by Mark Cunningham
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Soiling, maybe, but when 18th-century French ladies drank their chocolate, it was a sign of refinement. Always a niggle. Always the sense of no solid ground. And what does the earth rest on? You nibble a Snickers for solace, then fret about your weight. Children sit in rows, tormented by division like twigs devoured by wood lice. It's years before they learn that there's no real way to handle remainders. As you rest from one errand, plan another, you feel your body fizz, persistent as cola foam shaken, riddling away.

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number 21 in the 2River Chapbook Series   Color FieldContents Chapbook Archives 2River