over pomegranates those fields plus a few loquats. mother looks silky. or like “Down Home Blues.” or such a creature by habits. I run further—into sugars or pears or grapes. we eat, we laugh, we become disgruntle but solemn.
“You know what
they’re doing? You must have a clue. You are so naïve.”
I wouldn’t
whisper. I wouldn’t sing. It was close to obvious—someone knew.
pit bulls flooded the area. most had
some stray pit bull. we had something, some mut looking animal, we called it a
Bull Terrier. we named it Terry, to represent trauma, for this was the name of
a mean person. indeed, such morose beauty such cagey anxiety where grownups
would beat another person’s child.
to bewitch a soul or to call her name where a man
believes he’s in charge. such soft, sweet glory. such pathways—passion, so
unbridled.
to boast over
football, to watch soccer, or to roam from yard to yard. most every home, such
kneeling for comfort, or tragic, terrible tales.
elders would become liquid, souls
would gravitate, some would sip, on the porch.
I ate a fig or raced cars such essence
in unanalyzed time.
the upper beauties hadn’t come yet.
such as philosophizing by logic. or placing titles to raw existence. we knew
what we studied, we knew by lost purpose, while a watchword seemed to define
most of what we experienced.
