He tells me everything I need to know, and if I ask, he'll tell me to listen.
The walls have blank faces where dark shadows paint themselves new clothes, like shop-lifting&hand-me-downs. A dresser in Oak stands on the edge of it's four legs, with a mirror decorated in strings of field flowers. My eyes glaze and center themselves into the patchwork ceiling slanting like an attic--not so attic cold. The fan buzzes helplessly beside the bed, and I kick my feet up&out to avoid constriction of heat. For 14 days I have been stranded in a desolate town where there are more pine than people, and I'm begining to get the hang of this post office-bakery-market-routine. I lay as still as these tired arms will let me, and I rewind&play the sun up-sun down day in stereo, because my mind is an ampitheatre to a couple hundred seats. The dust folds into the creases of my hands, and the constant hum of portable fans breaks me&the cashier, who handles the money for the newest box-office thriller. The air around me is thin&clean, as is the thousands of billions of nothing that sifts through my hair, in semi-circles about my mild chest, and down under the fabric that lay across my hips. A cloud brings beads of subtle rain, who stitch& pound the dirt ground. I left my window open so that I can turn about my belly and watch the invisible people walk gently--not abruptly, carrying their invisible children, who tangle their invisible dolls with hug.
Today I come home, and the beads are hail. Across the tops of lucious canopies they sprawl downwards to the ground floor where I rest--always a fireplace burnt. Our lips burst only indoors, out of cold, out of trouble--never bodies as naked as we came. Never a field of tall grass, covering youth that are in lust--YOUTH THAT ARE IN LOVE. Never a horseback example of passion. We take for grantid what we do not want, and the Earth who whispers Goodbye every time you cough--she is a bride to be wed&devoured by a universe of density and of the science of sin. There is nothing more fatal.
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