That Electric Field, You Remember
Look, the moonlight is irrepressible to push aside the sinews of shadow. A vacant lot, overgrown with thistle and green sweat of grass. The neighbors shot off the sound of flowers in motion. Last week, or years ago, the workers locked the factory door for the very last time and didn’t even know. All the town shoved its hands into pockets and couldn’t find lint. But seriously, the rumors breathe their own useless daydreams. They’re so gone anymore, an empty stem. The little heads fly off and whisper in corners. The motion is down to the left. Singular martyrs and broadcast margins of blight. Wear gloves so often your hands never get dirty or bleed anymore. They shed tears at the end of the day, crags of seaweed, the skin of fish fathoms below. There are fish under the earth who used to swim. There are mountains who are really just overgrown stones. Button up shutters, there’s a chill in the air. Bugs fly in through the smallest cracks. People who say people walk and grow still. A comet in the sky. You saw a comet as a child and sang to it every night. It never seemed to move until it was gone. My hair grew into lions and rode in the back of a star’s convertible. With its wild pace I was hardly surprised. If you look down the tracks you’ll see artifice. You’ll find a gallery and hung with night scenes. Go ahead and stick your arm into one, feel the dew and the warmth or cold and draw your arm back out, covered in stardust. Does anyone ever dig wells anymore? You are what you drink. You learn what you know. You were a child too, all wet and new and full of awareness. You had to unlearn everything.
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