Under the deck, under our radar, under investigation, under wraps. Beginning of worlds, beginnings of words, beggars. Yanked back and forth, hot and cold, hot and cold, he allows her to pick the few remaining bleeding hearts. Geraniums drown irises and roses.
First he looks far, then near, at the long table in front of him, then into the unseeable distance. He rights in this direction with a sinking feeling. Violin section rises to the oboe. Profusion, infusion or confusion.
Spent fireworks, smell as loud as the explosion. They found what remains of her brother. Cut a hole in the green wall, trimmed juniper and cherry, to give the rear garden more light. Un-toward.
He swings to your magnetic north. Gigantic Atlantic. Racing back and forth, squirrel rattles the cherry tree. Back to roses, thorns in side, the world makes sense.
Yarrow stumbles into daisies, swarms bush beans. Yellow cropduster dips below canola, rises, dropping its chemical load, over spring wheat. Below the horizon, what we haven’t met yet, what we can still imagine. Our distant neighbors.
Neighborhood children chase their screams round and round. At dusk, sky bruises. She invents, persists, doesn’t give up until she sits spinning, swinging, on the stick tied by two jump ropes to a tree over her head. Yellow rose petals, bright decorative bark, stubborn, invasive grass.
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