Saturday, June 4, 2011

Listen I heard God

A man with a sweaty skull and no shirt came towards us causing J. to say "what's this?" While on the gravel road on which cold rain was puddled a purple butterfly we failed to name fluttered and blew around as if its interior radar was busted. "He's got these bright blue eyes like bright." Like that, okay?

I couldn't remember how far down the road Paul and I once rode, but remembered well the feeling of panic when we passed a certain house, the one with African masks on the porch. Oh and the bridge is out, you'll want to remember that. On the other hand, we did not see any bears, not even near the beaver pond where we made less sound because the bracken was wet. Your prayer is my amen and we are both blessed accordingly.

I couldn't take my eyes off you. Wine leaves my mouth dry. I almost wrote "wife." We drank beer in the greenhouse, our fingers trailing over the tomato sprouts.

Later I made waffles. The road dipped and in order to keep up I stopped paying attention to the rocks, even the clear quartz. Let's be clear, though - exactly what do you think it is that I can't do? Summer theater, now that'll heal the marital rifts.

My veins pop out when I'm tired. It comes down to money and it will until I have some. Bluets even there, like old friends forgotten and gone. Listen: I heard God saying pay attention and so I did, I do.

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