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No stump presents a louder reflection of your most frivolous task. No line break can withhold your palms. Once, you asked a small field farmer for mustard greens, and, without knowing it, let him slip you an orange behind. Youthful tendencies. Gritty shelves. “Is dusting something people do?” A joint project of childishness and sun dried water-logged beets. The brightest of colors can’t be replicated without the perseverance of Tide. High at sandy-born altitudes. Women I know come scampering through oddly-winterized slots, leaving behind only soiled underpants and attempts at homemade bleach. ‘A fake flower,’ or; ‘I think I am just now getting at something.’ Unreadable swirls of bubble at the surface, refusing to be identified as soap, speed-froth, or worms. |
