Wednesday, May 24, 2017

MISDIRECTION

Hope for the future.
Childlike and
inscrutable wonder.

Breathy,
pungent breezes,
redolent, despite their freshness,

of ancient,
archetypal
mysteries. Ever since—

tired
yet proud of it,
wide but still waifish,

the enchantress
came walking
through the morning

piss and gloom,
slowing to huddle
inside this

fiberglass bus stop,
clutching a dozen
deep crimson roses—

with which
to blind the
mind's eye

perfectly—from
the lime-
green Crocs.

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