The street curls downward like an eyelash, or the tendril of a blackberry vine who has remembered the humidity. This is perceived—I am not allowed to draw these sorts of parallels.
Katie asks for more soap to stretch over her hands, which now reek of chlorophyll. This is heard and smelled.
There has been no mention of a bubble wand. This is forgotten.
She is a keeper of junebugs. This is known.
Their pastel shells (sunbleached hematite) drift like a thousand blown jewels of zirconia from a dandelion. This is a mirage. I have never seen this before.
It’s the second summer day she has shaken them from her hair. This is also known—it is pattern.
Heat blooms into membranes of dishsoap. This is seen.
They are filled with something more than air, enclosed by colors that are more than light tricks. This is what we would like to believe.
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Great post thanks. I really enjoyed it very much. You have a great blog here.
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Comment by Writing Jobs 11/20/2011 @ 10:30 PM