by | Apr 18, 2015 | Poetry


I say:
Your shirt looks
like the exhaust plume
Of a starship
which has become
momentarily transparent
due to its conversion
into anti-matter for the jump
to light speed,
and here we are,
inside that ship looking back
through the hull,
invisible as well, strapped
into our seats wondering
about death.
Or maybe a spider
that’s trapped
behind the concentric rings
of its own web.

And you say:
I like how black the black is.
It’s very black.

Photo By: Andreas Levers

About The Author

Robert Parrot

Robert Parrott grew up in Baltimore City, and he has worked as a school bus driver, modern dance percussionist, professional photographer, and English instructor. He is currently an MFA candidate at Southern Illinois University in Carbondale.