Lindsay Daigle July Flame

July Flame



I feel like they’re running us out of town. We walk down

the street. I wear a belt around each thigh. We turn left at

the dead end sign. They are bent smoke. They are running

us out of town. All downhill town. Does that mean

sweet skull sounds? My clothes are too big. Things are

different now. Dead end. They are there. We are at the

tower again. I want to scale some brick mountain like it’s

something good. Dead trees, a string of commiserating

branches on the ground. I remember an easy way down.

Wrong, fallen animal. Sweet skull blues. What looks to

be a winged drop is bruised oblivion-limbs. There’s time

to look above me for vibrations, thick as my legs. Enough

time to brace myself for the impossible exit, the hot push

of some other sky.


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