Raffia

He ran around hurdles instead of over them
when his fright caught up to him.

She typed her entire novella on her smartphone.
Skated as if an Olympic contender.

When she folded into her skin tight skin, into 
her knees and spun on the ice in her sequins

it was impossible to know her thoughts. 
He climbed the ladder to the roof to retrieve 

the soggy leaves from the canales. There he found 
a tiny metal car - midnight blue with doors that 
opened and shut.

She hadn't spoken to her sister in a dozen years.
The address like a place holder in ink in her address 
book.

He was color blind. He wore the tattoo of his
indecision like a vendor. 

He enjoyed movies out; everyone wearing 
the same colors in the dark.

She imagined herself a book artist, folded
spines with lithe fingers, rounded and stitched 

with burlap raffia like wheat against red sunsets.

She cut out profiles of sea.
He wished he could sail.

She was given a mink pin sculpted like a brown rose
that she believed would make an ideal ornament

for calming. 

He looked at himself in the mirror, 
running his hand over the shadow on his chin.