29 May 2009

or blue. Cottonwood dust floats up and a breeze, a spring one, greens my smell and falls me down. No time like this to remember that time dulls me old, blunt green against the blue, no memory of anything but this, a soon-gone touch just wanting your lips to brush my touch, a riffle as pine, oak, and aspen pull earth to eye as birds light on trembled limbs. but hold this breath

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