those small viviparous pastures.

 

 

Even tough I winced like Larry from the Three Stooges when you left

there still was a sunrise, though based solely on scanty evidence. My

 

figurine head spinning like the headdress ornament of Uncles old Ford

where I would wobble from side to side then land straight again

 

like nothing but the wind had happened. Like nothing human could

prevent me fom tipping my little metal arms, frozen into that half life

 

of pear shaped syconium, towards the future. No one can tell, as I speed past, just how

surpassable I am. Even the close ojects include me in their talk

 

of dense fields or polka dot diagrams that repeat and repeat

the very minute the engine turns off. No need to hide my dance steps now

 

in the yellow of the fig wasp. Its facinating the flotilla of

 

of goats in the same pasture you sat in, pastures where aggregated particles of

soft flakes billow with just one singular hurd dog stuffing flower and throatlatch

 

in it's  nostril, just  like those pink buttocks so venerated by the ancient Egyptians.

I can still hear their stampede as if my mind was made of grass.

 

There's a place, that of course is legend, where marshmallows grow tall and

spongy with their abdomens of corn syrup and their faces as white as ritual.

 

I want to find that place. Already in this flowerbed, your fat thighs are missed like the surplice

where the neckline closes down the sun; where we shall hold the strange dreamlike

 

atmosphere of real faith tight as a bite. And what a fuss the stretch pants will make,

having proved that lycra is the nightfall that snaps back

the dark.

Reviews

[Ken Simm.]

What a wonderful use of words and describing of moments.

[Emily B]

oh, dana, a little breathless here, you just keep getting better and better, your voice is so pure and honest and unique, i want to walk in your words often