are the portraits
of unglamorous—
they're like movies
that can't stop forgetting
their own plot twists.
Yet,
there are days
on the set
when the sky is a halfway-
decent watercolor,
the distant forest
a matte painting
so vivid and so still
as to border on suspicious.
And there,
deep in shadows
the color of ashes,
soundtracked
by the lapping
smack of water
and the drone of bees
far to lazy to sting,
we can't shake the feeling
that the air we breathe
has been keeping
thick secrets;
that maybe—just maybe,
there might be
something to this.
