Thursday, January 1, 2009

Scent Of Heaven

She was the color of the first scent of Heaven surely. Pipe smoke is cracker and very fast. You sit when longing, Carl Yastrzemski. Something I decided. Into the lower field geese would land, briefly, a small marsh where in fall drained out amidst goldenrod. Mist reminded women on the tractor of coming back. Long wrappings wave hello to the neighbors of him. Garage rabbits tearing up at their hidden young afterwards. My father had a black guitar earlier yet. One recalls a good reason later. One grandfather stayed other. You are broken for no fix. Apple peels, the gorging future, appetite of a bird. Born free as free as the wind blows. One is compromised when standing in the world. Jumping truck engines in winter tethered me to that community of men. Held forever in Andy's glowing tumbled rocks. Beginning fascinates. Giblets fried in ox blood, to later hold the mail.

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