Lily
Lily, the
letter, it is in her. She leans into it because of the dirt, dirt beat
flat across the outer edge of glue, the scripting, which she has read,
which she has not taken in, nor looked across the bank, the weigh
station, heard rumble strips digest against the early moon.
The
oneup the road has taken his back to a usin the heavily burnt
spring. The stool spins and a cicada zings against the fence. Someone
moves a car like a peice of glass across her face, the letter.
Better
if we are two nuisances, our knees red with dirt. The dark was growing
up Parley's Corner, behind boat hitches, where the boats failed and the
rust cut through them. It was work to have this story told her, look.
His mustache is like glue. The velvet supper of dirt. Bees, laced in white combs, their white combs.
The
letter is a pouch of hair and thistle. The entire body is moonish and
soft, a paper thrown forward into a stream where ever the pulp is still
mashing in the mud. My Lily, the two of us passing up smoke from a
train roiling in the summer . We are with them, in our way, a little
behind the trail of smoke rising and usually rising away.
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