by John Ian Marshall
Within these fields of intertwined grasses,
A smile, study of outstretched hands, dancing,
Dancing in a simpler past, blues tunes play on
A tiny, tinny radio, everywhere the kind of bliss
Which only occurs in dreams, spiraling, spinning,
The best of which we are awake in. Splayed
Fingers trace the tall weeds’ uneven tops, where
Even the ringing silence [...]
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