I don’t know why, but the image has stayed with me across all these years: a dark beach of gray-foamed surf juxtaposed with a tour bus vomiting forth pallid spring breakers. Excited handchatters congregating on rocky jut. Memory in the third-person. Myself sickened at sight of such sugary jubilation and darkly resentful from some long forgotten slight, choosing to feel and see the wind through out-stretched palms. I can’t truly, rightly remember whether it was really nightfall or a scene coloured by my mood. Rude week, luna blue nights, jagged bottleglass fences.
The morningloried wall of rickety fencing separates incurious neighbors.
It’s truth yielding to falsity with the doubletaking head, the ersatz Christmas tree interlopes ribald in its yellow scrap of yard.
Robin red breasting the green tide, fowl feathered in a grassy ocean.
Under refracting sunlight minnowing shoals labyrinthe between mossrock.
A shining jewel quickwinking in the air, the dragonfly boasts an unparalleled sphere of movement.
Half way orange plumpness seizes its being as it fruitfully drags itself downground; the smell of tomatoes is strong.