Faded translucent cubes into the amber liquid—
the characteristic rattle and plash, the clatter
of all those corners jostling for position
in the glass cylinder, in the swirling fire,
drawing thermaclines in curling whirls
through dark liquor, giving up their shape
slowly, slowly edges dissolving,
geometry undone by chemistry.
Retired after 37 years of teaching high school English, Cecil Morris now tries writing what he spent so many years teaching others to understand and (he hopes) to enjoy. He continues to wear the bright colors he adopted to stand out at school and on school field trips. He never wanted to surprise students by appearing suddenly after they had started some mischief. He has recent poems appearing in or forthcoming from New Verse News, Rust + Moth, Sugar House Review, and Willawaw Journal.
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