Friday, November 11, 2011


There was a sound like a rush of flames
climbing a diseased femur.

It lasted the length of an exhale.

A pop, a scream, an orgasm,
a pain, a crinkled love letter.

Dandelions withered by the sun’s
radiance added to the cliché.

The smell of recently cut grass of
a little league’s infield and outfield
announced that it was time to play ball.


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