a rewording of JKD's Flurry
Invisible the crowds expected, nothing like Ezra’s petals on
a bough—in this swamp, there’s no metro, wetly rumbling, only helicopters, and
below the flowerbursts of weeds growing over broken Grand Teton sidewalks, through
air heavy with potential advertising revenue, renewal, tourist onslaught,
bracing snow forgotten until that homewards flight Monday, for now it’s simply a
bourbon-scented hot dream of a Sunday, bowling out of the morning with no
expectations and a somewhat wilted Carnival hat.
1 comment:
love this!
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