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Stars Over RoseAppleFarmVille (July)

The windows are open tonight, and
Doc and BJ sleep on separate floors.
He fights a cold, and neither of them wants
to start a summer-cold sickbed-volley.
(Also, colds make him snore.)

But outside the air is pure,
starlit indigo and sweet with July,
and so the windows are all wide
to the shushing of the big aspen and
the brittle chords of porch chimes.
Poised between worlds, BJ hears
the distant yap of coyotes – or maybe
it’s just the dogs from the farm
at the end of the lane.

is neither city nor country.
It’s a semi-burb; this gently shabby
space that was once fields,
and now fills in jigsaw-spaces
between the creeks and all the
antique little country towns.

Some day the City may swallow it up.
Until then, it lies suspended
between worlds. Until then,
it’s a maze of tree-lined streets
all beginning with an “F”:
Fairway, Fieldplay, Faberge, Falcon.

Here the mature houses sneer
at the denuded fields of McMansions
springing up across the way like
overgrown mushrooms, crouching close.
They glow like fungus, too;
immodest with their blazing vaults
and huge undressed windows.

BJ rolls over; even in sleep
her face seeks starlight and indigo.
Downstairs, Doc begins to snore
as his body fights invaders.
Tucked in this modest F-street
with the cool July night streaming in,
soaking his bones – with a sigh,
he rests.

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  1. risinghawk

     /  July 16, 2014

    “starlit indigo and sweet with July.” Wonderful turn of a phrase! Peace . . .



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