In this poem, the number of syllables per line increases by one as you read. Interestingly, I only noticed this after I’d written it. Good work, brain.
Glowing, pearly fog
Clings to street lights damply
Above, contrails of three jets
Illumined by reflected light
Reach for the moon like silver fingers –
The planes flee rapidly away, winking.
Copyright ©2015 C. Mitchell