Peb 21, 2015

Pax

At the convenience for a stop, about to wear the faces of their fathers to work. Also serving: hard-boiled dozen on a perforated tray for patrons of instant soup. Whatever they’re playing is smitten by you, will be, had been. The tempered glass quivers, but gaze we past the frequency (as the mops await, yon cute makeshift scythe of bamboo pole and nylon string, of kitty sticker and business end: the board-elected measure against the random fan falling, green on a leashed dog, a khaki jogger, smoking critic, him). Asking to take you, or it / all away. Pitch your handful of loam, “wait on the wind, catch a scent of salt, call it our life.” A solid reduction of hazard pay for any fighter tearing up over spent comrades with prime airings of grief. Hoodwinked by such expert use of the time difference. The law of returning diminishments. Speak your sleep—but how could you; live the dream and also dream it.