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Front Yard of the Old HouseBare feet on the driveway, dirt and sand, bug bites; A lifetime of air drenched in hot sun and bright with rain. No shade, no shades—everything in primal green, yellow In this breathless summer soup of being born.Front Yard of the Old House
The driveway, rough against my palms, is a desert, Vast and empty until I press my eyes to the cracks: Little black ants trundle resolutely between the plates While the sun’s weight pounds their polished armor, Counts time against their clicking march, Gives up and burns its fingerprints into the body of a worm.
The desert spills into the road, wide
by ~Sacchi
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- 808 Staff Spotlight: $SGonzalez - Mar 7, 2008
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- Current Residence: Indianapolis
- Interests: stuff
- Favourite movie: High Fidelity, Clueless, The Incredibles, Amelie
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- Favourite poet or writer: Orson Scott Card, Neil Gaiman
- Website: http://hicat.livejournal.com
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Q: Is there such a thing as a swashbuckling metafictional parody about pirates and break-dancing zombies?
A: Why, yes. It's called Derelict Heaven.
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