Slick of the palm

Love is moving house.
The abstraction of us
Has come to rent-
A room or two, an inch,
A second split in photons.
The visceral is packing
Its shredded leaves in colors.
Autumn has never beheld
Fresher to the blind eye,
Its revelations, in layers
Like separate soft skins
Of a perfectly-shaped onion.
Thoughts grow amagnetic,
At the very end of the mind
As fall transpires us, parched.

Witty Fay is a translator by trade and a humanist by nature. She has been writing herself into her poems for some time into the virtual world at Destiny Poets, Writers Cafe, Poetry Soup, Indiana Voice journal, Screech owl, Ink sweat and tears, Every Writers Resource and Verse Wrights . Also, she proudly had her bilingual volume of poetry, Nefelibata (Brian Brixon Books, 2014), published and she is aiming at unraveling prose. Wearing the many hats of the aspiring poet/writer, she draws inspiration from the people she meets, the places she travels, and the books she reads.

Last updated February 27, 2016