The shell casing slow motions skyward, drop-floats back to ryegrass, brass in a tight coat of gunpowder.
Many others, random as dandelions, are found by the sunlight, gathered, handed out to wilt between our fingers, in pockets.
A cousin reminds us to wash with lots of soap after touching them. Lead residue. Still warm in our hands, the poison slow motions, too.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Green Mother joins The Box and the two are doing fine
It's so weird...I'm writing this book The Box now. It's going good. Half finished with the first draft. All nonlinear and disco...
-
I first read Rusty Barnes’ Mostly Redneck last year. My intentions were to write a review at that time, but, in all seriousness, I just...
-
Hi. I'm Sheldon, and I'm a television addict. Well, not really. I never watch television. Not exactly. The problem is I buy, bor...
-
Andrew Bowen is a thinker. A writer, an editor, a theologian, a philosopher, and did I mention one hell of a thinker. That's why I...
I love this Sheldon. It's so quiet - but still deadly at the end.
ReplyDelete- Felicia
Thanks, Marlena. It's nice to see you here, doing me the honor of reading my little offerings. It is greatly appreciated.
ReplyDeleteHit me like a sniper's bullet. Well done.
ReplyDeleteCool, Andrew. Hope it's just a flesh wound, though.
ReplyDelete