Wednesday, April 16, 2014

npm: 04.16


Sun, mad at moon, never rose. She tried old tricks of counting backwards from 10, 20, 4.6 billion but nothing worked. Steam still brewed from lash and knuckle. She took a walk and burned the woods. She considered prison but melted lock and bars. To the whiskey, huddled in a bad way. Around her shoulders a blanket thrown, full of stars and stains.

End this feud, the rain chanted. The clouds linked arms. Grass grew in, the color of forgotten lemons.

Moon, crooked above, craters all full of blood. The waves get worse. Dams are deceived. I apologize, she writes. Bird wing dipped in tar.

A waitress brings it, impatient, marked with hemisphere of condensation. Another round, mugs melted. Sun reads, waits, smiles to lap. The soft in her lets it go. One day she will consume and collapse. There is no time to hate a waning gibbous.

The two meet somewhere, undisclosed. Craters drained, our girl rose. World squints a parade.

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