WRITE THE WORLD REVIEW ARCHIVE

1
A tall man with a short temper builds himself a sanctuary
out of sweet gums and summer dirt.

He calls it “Golden Hour.”

In June, the cotton fields settle into the hour like a Nun into prayer.
And both the birdcalls and the snail trails drag across the pink sky.

Pollen stuck to his thighs, the man feels
something unnamable growing in his chest;

something that sounds like poetry.

2
An old woman in a new coat doesn’t know
Why mosquitoes and moonflowers

are so afraid of the sun.

Curiosity and covet are twin brothers, so every night in June,
she fills the lining of her stomach with the rotations of dim stars.

And the feeling is more than that of having a beloved, or a
home with a white-picket fence. It’s a religious kind of fruition,

for which dusk is the altar.

3
The sun is setting, a fat blob on a thinning horizon.
It’s taking squirrels and dragonflies with it, too.
​
Don’t let it take you.