Saturday, August 6, 2011

Ceramic Soup Bowls Left Out In The Rain

I dreamed of sleeping, of a sweet creamy tea, and also powers of flight. There was no breeze in the Saw Palmetto, you could hear drops of sweat against the flagstone. Talk of victory then is premature. Death is just a window cracked wider. "Tornado plants," ceramic soup bowls left out in the rain. The trailer park was cheerful that night, I remember walking with you from one party to the next, very Christian. That was the year she celebrated Easter in Ghana. Seven page letters full of who remembers what. He crept away with organic grapes. The cat was grateful when the house grew quiet. What is about you then? He kept telling me about this dream of sleep to which I could only reply I'm a cognitive not a Freudian psychotherapist. Adults are no better. What worked and can we replicate it? God has his reasons said the young priest and my sister snorted then threw up. We discussed the use of certain dyes in summer. Respect for her art was a condition of the dinner invitation which around dessert I realized accounted for my anger. The teacher opted against tiny hand cymbals. Not ever again! Don't say you won't regret it.

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