Trudging into high Effervescent Noon

Trudging into cottonwood storms, heavy lidded eye-socket
light of April, a smaller than normal air shaft unraveling, or
the faint transparency of a make believe idealism thrown
over the fence by a spiteful child - I cried, indeed, I remember
the panic, though everyone betook me for a theatrical runaway
induced to such hysterics by a highly over active imagination, yet
I could (at the time) taste the vermillion thickness of summer
heavier on my tongue than any stick of gum I was ever given
to chew. As though by rotating my teeth around, my smile could
appear less flippant. Less docile. Vamping around sapient soliloquies.
I used to lie about knowing another language because my spelling
was so bad; and you only having eyes to remark upon it's slovenly
diction - indicating irate unreproachive responses.

Cooling heels in summertime verbatim, teaching the back of my
neck to not melt in the heat. Teaching my hand to rest easily without
yours encircling it as it once was during high effervescent noon; crooning
around with words that have less power now that rock bands took them
over. Claiming them afresh as though they had never been spoken.
Never meant anything to anyone -

Unrevealing the Romanism of Washingtonian d├ęcolletage; I told you
that if it was good enough for the Parathions than it was good enough
for me, though they were often concurred by conceited convents of
agriculturally sexless plagues. Throwing words up from the ground
to my second story bedroom window in the white heat of the setting sun,
glimmering squinting eyes to follow the blank blindfold to your unapologetic
stance. Apathetic orgy's, because we could, and as you played with a patch of
my hair I told you the story about how I had once dreamed of being a nun, and
how you giggled like in girl in the shadow of what we had just done. Unfolding
as we were the path of what we were about to do. In transit to the eclipse of what
was meant to be, and you pointing to the light, something strange, hoping I would