the napkin.

Time began in a garden.  Her seeds overflowed the high concrete walls.  The love crashed like cymbals inside the waves.  Her watches ticked away seconds, butterflies in his mouth.  She saw them there, hoarding ferocity, bubbles in those plastic bottles.  She went on as he got colder, tossings ice on forks at random things who deserved his nonexistent respect.  Her plasticine scents tooke her back to times where fun was a memory, work was a bore, and giggles sat on the shelf with sex appeal.
Time moved up to the mountain.  Her seeds avalanched the steep rocky walls.  The love crashed like cymbals inside the waves.  The buzzers and the be-dop's made no sense to her iron copper brain.  Her heart was stronger but easily slashed.  Hopes dashed, like the turkeys circling her head for food, hoping she was dead inside.  Time was alive and moving on.  Her spirals sent her spinning through another ink black storm.  Drawn to the flame, she sat on the empty log, surrounded by someone's stab at a second chance.  The white dots huddled and swarmed, knowing in a few hours the sand would be cold.  The moonlight shone on their dreams, hovering above the glass, popping.

elyse solana reves     9-13-99

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