Tuesday, August 01, 2006

Camping Trip

Yellow or brightseeming anyway, it smells crisp in the morning. It
sounds like zippers on opening tents. You are drooling, my love, asleep.

Zippers yawn across acres, louder than a loon, a good
irruption. Awakening. An uprightness.

It smells crisp, and is crisp, and dad eats true cereal.
The lake is unbreakable like a foggy mirror,

and my brother laughing rolls his kayak, foot
tangled, and drowns there as I splash around these rotting shells.

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