(no subject)

[bijouxbijoux]

so
when the pavement is hot
that the rain doesn't have time to hit
and there's that smell in the air
of wet grass and waning light
before the wool is pulled over our eyes
like the linen on your mother's line
would you come with me?
explore the hidden rabbitholes
in the back feild
where that slave was buried
and forgotten... oblivious we are to it's
sanctity
would you come?
and play with me amongst the weeds
that are flowers to me
and blow their seeds
most unsensible-like
but it is good indeed
to be unsensible, my dear.
reality is a leapfrog away
when the linens are taken down
and folded away
and the crickets take the stage
it is good indeed,
to me sensible,
my dear.