Monday, April 11, 2011


The green hills roll and tangle, lush until they burn. Clouds hover above, from storms foretold to pale remainders. Crows feast on french fries in the dead center of the road. Doves start and scatter for almost any reason. So goes the blue sky blue, and the day-lit day. So goes the practice once the theory is murdered at long last, buried fast and shallow while the fields go fallow and the rumors start to roam.

The day is glazed with steady sunlight. The day is draped in welcome flesh. A pallid thigh, a dark shoulder, smiles that burn too ready and too bright. You could almost forget the perils. You could almost lose yourself to the season and the scene. Trees blooming pink and white. Appetites aroused and seldom sated.

Come summer the skies will taste of smoke as all this new growth dries and burns. Come summer the heat will beat down ruthless on street and skin. Sleep will be tainted with sweat and stains. Every dream will arrive baring its teeth. There is a moment where limits seem distant, where the harmless lies we let ourselves live won't hurt yet. There is a moment rife with blossoms of peach and cherry, tomorrow still a million years away.

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