(no subject)
the cool the grass the wet the cool wet grass always wet dew on the tops of your toenails and cold ache in the arch of your foot bare feet but not even dew, just rain. what summer? i wander. at the time i was searching. i wonder. but now as i remember, (while tossing about rosemary and singing about rue? what kid in their right mind. must be the fickle...) i just wander and the sun has risen, though i'd forgot to notice, and it beats down on my dizzy pasty face, but the grass is still cold and soaked and too green and it hurts. sometime later maybe, or before, i was given an earnest look, and i shuddered because i considered it naive, and i was probably right because one should never be earnest with another, it leaves out all the humor. there is such a tremendous anxiety about first impressions, and even second, and even as the nerves wear off there's still the third and fourth and so on, so i wonder if it ever really ends, if there comes a point where no matter how you act the people that know you will just blink and laugh it off. although that wouldn't give enough credit to our ability to be so much like clay, i suppose. this deluge will stop soon enough, the sky will cry itself out, and then we can go back to enjoying the sunlight glistening off fresh roadkill in the street, reflected twice in the june-bake heat.