My heels squish in the marshy ground. I demolish tortilla chips with a plastic fork
Thin trees rise from the thick texture of the saw palmettos’ sharp green leaves.
Your foot first descends like a butterfly in the desert. You want to be sand.
Alcohol Virgin Philosopher Kings club meeting, 7:30 sharp with homework and unsettled melodic war, all cacophonous in the background and you’ll wish you were
Each day one by one they inspect the grains
Every summer, I sit sautéing in coconut sunscreen beside Korinne at her pool, eating pink strawberries straight from the vine, drinking Fentimans Rose Lemonades with slices of lime until the sky swirls creamsicle.
Waning crescent moon
It can see the line of sunlight weaving through the craters
The book on your shelf called Herbs of the Earth implies the existence of herbs of the sky, of the sea. Mars, Jupiter
Stand tall in a graveyard of dead wedding flowers and refuse to turn into a ghost.