Friday, July 14, 2006

this country does noT exist

The moon was gold like violets in February, and the grass green like radishes pulled from the dark recesses of the fridge. The air smelled of diamonds--coal burning in the microwave; and life breathed down my neck with the self-importance of a forced whisper during morning vespers.

Rain falls like similes.

I like the like creatures like morning likes dawn.

Words and intentions fail.