An octopus of arms and dust scurries over to tug, tug, tug baby legs and plastered locks from embed dead rocks of drone jet-some
I found the perfect summer dress, linen cotton blend, A-line, V-neck, green.
She, eight years old, one of two outlined below, dashing in and out to shop for potatoes. No. to glean potables from dust. Whistling pinon peas arrive and vanish, leaving cranberries at the point of entry.
Can’t we go to France, now? Where it’s hot, but pretty?
Where monsters are turned wine and burnt butter, I’ve heard.
A tiny boy with a curly kind of mass of earth shattering hair called for ICE CREAM and squeezed my big index with all his tiny tiny digits.
All the other babies are gray and beige and deflating, clay faces, limp fingers
dehydrating, rubber dolls, biodegradable
with that kind of look in the eyes,
So, should I grow a tree?
If you didn’t know better, you’d know this is an anti-anti bit of lit.
Unschooled, ungroomed, un-sonneted or pentametered un-polyrhythmic counter-current flow lit.
