Turner Foster Poems

Green eyes and sequential two dollar bills.
She picks up the phone with distorted, dismembered hands.
'Hello.' A brief indecision. 'I love you.' She's sure.
...

Grass anew,
the dew is fresh upon satin-laden cheeks.
Withstand the loss,
a storm all ending in syncopation.
...

I call you irate,
and push you away.
We yell 'stalemate, '
I weep latter night and say,
...