I dont believe it, he said, The trees keep on veining up Without even any skelatons inside, Unfolding like plastic protractors In a math class for dryads. It was that kind of summer: The fog had enameled the seaside, And we were green with work, Ready to make a run for it with the mermaids. It seemed like we were growing again at 20 and 25, as though 15 were smirking in a corner, muttering: I ain't through with you yet, girl. Maybe it was some kind of latent giantesshood, Our towering newness. Like glazed battlements, Groping for the clammy sky Like headless, hairless cats-- Or the veins of trees, Bursting for Autumn to cut their capilaries. We were so sure we could make it, That we learned sexy island dances To perform at the coming intergalactic fiesta.
Here is what they are crying, the enamel drowned fishes: Mottled giant, muddy with nutmeg, Stuck in your bottle of vinegar, Come back from your carnival bog. Have yourself a sip of our julep, Which we've frozen in place just for you! _______________________________________________ Five7Five mailing list [EMAIL PROTECTED] http://www.pairlist.net/mailman/listinfo/five7five
