White icing cold as the frosting on cake tops. Knuckles and knees lock in opposite ways. Polluted pale bees sleeping on a tree's face. They are the renters that leave when the rent's up. They are the best friends that sleep in the pup tent, drinking the sap from the mug of the tree without treating precarious roots precariously. Coconut flakes shredded just like the fibers of bark in the dirt left to flounder without even one cloud that comes on a regular basis. Opposable limbs open up when the bees go. The white kitchen soap that they need when they're lonely The tree needs its snow.
Broc Riblet lives in Cincinnati and writes during his spare time.
Butterfly on a Tire
The fire-colored butterfly perched itself on the over-sized tire and dipped its antennas into the grooves of the black rubber treading. Never once did its little head look down and make a movement to the grass, choosing instead to hop from tire to tire. I trailed close behind, never setting foot on the sidewalk but choosing instead the brown rocky pathway beside it. The butterfly soon grew wise to my follow, and fled off toward the hot sun. I crossed the street and sank down from the noonday heat, leaving a trail of tiny pebbles behind me.
Febe Moss is a thirty four year old Native Texan who eats poems then dreams.