are of a piece,
with water running like ice
that holds tight
to the eaves
and melts to a point
finer than spit
in the palm of a boy
at bat, then spreads
in widening bruises
under the thin skin
of a man in a hospital gown
wandering the halls
in search of Home Base.
Copyright 2006 by the Tipton Poetry Journal.
All rights remain the exclusive property of the individual poet and may not be used without their permission.