clouds huddle overhead: ghosts of hunched athletes passed, crammed
together like particles of pressure, the stubborn space between magnet and polar opposite.
down south, the sky does not often break in summertime;
it leaks, panics, patches the hole, then erases its own memory,
clearing the way for a reckless blue that can only be tamed
by wrapping your skin tight ’round it
on the clear wind of a dream.
Ingrid Jungermann
writer.director : film.theaterWilmington, NC
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I come from the south
long time back
a floating childhood sucking through bloody marshes and seagulls with odd senses of humour
your clouds remind me of trees taller than even God must be standing sentry over clothes lines relentlessly holding flailing scratching crawling white white white sheets captive as the lightning marches boldly through my wide open psyche
warm ocean floating icecream bicycles huneysuckle roaches in my clothes and the kitchen sink popcorn chasing the mosquito truck deep into the evening way past the streetlamps laughter…
this is what you’ve left me with
ah, the roaches in your clothes! i’ve had some battles with roaches on this trip. not to brag, but i’ve won every one.