Sans Serif

Quid intuemini

She’s crushed her fingertip under a trunk lid

One purple nail the adornment of her hand

No rings and nothing else

Just this, playing across the jacketless blank

“I’m hating this,” she tells him


She has a book with a hard grey cover

Two gritted fangs forbid the eye

Looked I don’t know, a whim of hers

On the table, a nickel’s worth of care

“I’ll let you read it if you want.”


It’s that way, her distance as to pain

She hears herself but doesn’t hear

He peers, and hardly can make out

A title mar the spare slash of design

He will, and doubts he’ll know for it

What she hates, and why she hates


Copyright 2017 Stephanie Foster


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: