Sarah Greenberg Morse
A pin stripe and a stiletto meet on a cool afternoon in a city under construction.
His pipe smokes a modern puff, her shoe drains through collage stoppers. For both, gravity is working against conscious indifference. As if saying, we must look for our comfort where we can find it.
His chartreuse cloud-shadow posits “only where the smoke is allowed can we feel a little wicked.”
Top heavy bottom light, a murky line of poetry is uttered in the middle. Something about how many colors of gray until we see the sunset over the decay.
She prefers to get to the point; her shoe is draining after all.
“Who is balancing whom?” she asks, struggling to close her violet lips over the proper “m”.
That's when the edge is met.