by Brian McCloskey
Brown arm green gaze black boat blown sand barbed wire. Tonight, for instance, I am a wave. We cultivate with iron tea and hours. And sun that tasted of young honey. It was cool, quiet and nowhere. A sibilance of rhythm that works the atmosphere. Buzzards over the field, and crows, then a circus of bats. Love has nothing to do with it. There is no purple evident in the dress. There are mountains in my skylight. I know her arms and legs are moving. I'm obsessed with my pink tights. Smile when she makes you happy. We cram our closet with sunrise. But how does it begin in this world? I always seem to find myself attracted to the same shades of gray. I have to ask why the choice of black tights? The trigger's beautiful and simple. There is a moisture that hangs in the air and surrounds you at all times. Flowers have never been flowers. Its hobble is powerful as it mounts the outcrop. The practical difference between the two is whether a woman must cover her lower leg. I’d sleep in tights to avoid seeing my translucent Irish skin. And they remember the story of the night. I am in love with that rock picture. It covered the sky with stone. My stunned and disbelieving eyes noted that on that occasion she was wearing dark stockings. You are puncturing my imported muffler. No god forgives such things. I had a rather apocalyptic battle with a starving prostitute.