Tuesday, August 5, 2008

At Twilight Soft Pink

A ladder. Horticultural inclination. A crow turning its head, right, left, while flying. Bean stems, lady bugs, stone.

Or else what was the unasked question. A definition that longed for plugs. The hide moldered, was pulled on by dogs. He dreamt of erasers, and communities where they weren't needed.

In the sweet biannual truck pull. Of dust and then. A long swelter, a groove that fought for its own tongue. Bright as lasers, burning through you.

Bats, butterflies. Where the road bends an old injury not recalled. The water at twilight soft pink despite its black. Blueberries, aridity, a slow dance in the nattering.

Of matter. Begone. The hill they circumambulated. With yearning mostly, sometimes a map.

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