Sun twirled in handbasket, earth traipsing through her days, a girl on the hill.
Tree takes light of sun into bassinet. Crying green faces peer from the curled shroud. The green cloud places bees on the side of the bassinet. This shaded part even of the concrete is absorbing heat from that light. A bassoon is heard. Heat is light; Sun is concrete; “fungus fingers” is a poor name for sunlight. Light now entering frozen clam-bed of Earth and the concrete casing of a tall tree-sized street lamp is observed.
Conscious of one’s breathing for two breaths, counting inhale/ exhale as a single “pool lap.” Holding briefly at the pool’s edge before taking the remaining length.
“Asphalt is a hundred percent recyclable.” Corona resembles the rim of a washtub. The sun’s helium is a child in the tub undergoing a process. It is a pedestrian climbing from the deep pool of his tan.
Jonah: “That which ends perception is the whale. That which gives perception is the god.” In the solemnity of the mind, where real thoughts may and ought to occur, and concentration might exist, there is instead a lonely silliness and fantasy… Red paper rectilinear pellets slipped in the rainstained box. Pile of wood chips where the old storm damaged tree was (a victim of el derecho as so many of us of today claim to be): lot of new “fungus fingers” now fondling that spot.
.i`` * ^ / . . . . . ` `~ 