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the yardin this yard, at this time of year, a person can't sit anywhere without being besieged with a drapery of yellow dust and crumbling pollen overcoat - pleats of cloth ribbing yellow and sullenly sweet - dusky, like how a woman's closet might smell, the lingering kiss of once having worn too much perfume. yellow flowers stage themselves in awkward angles of hair.
the hum of bees is overwhelming, so that if you close your eyes and make a low song on your tongue, it will always, invariably, get lost in, or return to, that hum - that line of sound that means wings and air and flicking tongues and nectar droughts. the soft sound that when noticed becomes so loud, the mind begins to think of jets and how too many people sound in a room.
the ground has shadows like that of horses with grey spotted coats, but shivering, and the bees are lazy half remembered impressions - less dark, less sure, less... stationary real concrete existing
and there is the fruit of it: ladders left askew, old weber le
oceans...Let us start the night with a coarse laugh. A bubble of moon sightings and a mirage of broken sincerities. Let us fly on bikes with danger for wings, find that ripcord to pull before the morning comes.
And to think we started with plans. When the day was still high and the faces flew before us, some smiling, some wrinkling, some paling - battling bugs and heat and hunger, when they came.
Books strewn like a compost pile around the old willow tree in your backyard, fingers like seams in the sky - we lost ourselves to music which is more a harmony of thought and the excitement that comes with new knowing. Before now, neither one of us knew what it was to wake with poetry in our veins.
You eat cookies like how a dying man might eat his last supper, slow and sure, and with a sort of maddening modesty in your eyes. The watermelon you find problems with - pits and bruises and the wear of wrong seeds. The sort of way you classify people with broken-in shoes.
If there was ever a time I didn't
summer...Summer weighs heavy on a day like this. Waterless white-blue horizons bleached over by sun. The sidewalks steam on a day like this - and the easiness of it is there too. Slipping away from sheets damp and heavy from sleep, and eyes already bright - slipping away from sheets tangling legs like hair and into barely clothing - drinks fizzed over by ice cubes, and that neighbor with the never-ending rockband radio on.
Music sends alien signals off foiled air on a day like this. The easiness of it is there too.
Thinking of the coins we racked in with lemonade stands on days like this. In the morning we'd run like overlarge lobsters and tack up the signs, before the pavement burnt black our feet, and we could wrap jumbo-sized cookies for fifty cents. When cold sodas and shoulders beaten by sun were glorious.
On a day like this, the darkest house is a haven - dank stale air pelted by fans, and staring up at the ceiling, just breathing, doesn't seem like such a waste of time.
Days like this so
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