Thursday, September 11, 2008

Our Own Reflections

It weighs heavy, that objective. Not as a pile of books would but maybe raw apples. We saw ourselves reflected in the black windows of shut-down department stores.

Holiday dioramas with moving parts, also tanks on the side streets. As the sun fell a gourd rattled. The deer straightened, stood, their shoulders flexed.

In the distance, blue hills, the "sweet bye and bye." Boston rouge, a celibate battlements. The cost, too, in terms of what flowed off the tongue, had to be considered, but was it.

But that's a city I'll probably never visit. "John fell down the stairs and died." I could make a career busting prostitutes, his brother bragged, but then I'd never get any sleep.

No number is recoverable following the horizon. The water was covered with a thin green scum no finger dared stir. Popcorn then, two bowls, buttered with a light sprinkling after of Parmesan cheese.

Might you have been dreaming of tomatoes? The roil emerged from shadows like plans for a new hydroelectric plant. A fist, a first, and a flat foray.

The beast with its hunger lurching through childhood. You asked in the shadows - I was there, in your arms - what are you waiting for?

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