Sharp knife of morning slice into that cantalope moon and let the sweet juice roll down the milky way and drip puddles in the receading shadows, congealing pools of blood by the door. In sun they are only chalk imprints in irradescent paint that eyes look through and forget to see. There's a need to slice deeper reveal the seeds, let them fall from their zenith like stars shooting down to land, always, somewhere over the horizon. These seeds rain down, a sticky summer hail, catch in people's hair and when they are swept up, thrown on some gull infested dump, thrive and grow, blooming into the fragrance of a summer night as the moon rises and there is an unexplainable odor of cantalope that refuses to drift by.
Hunter, your poetry leaves me gasping for words. I loved the cyclic device that you used so very well in this little piece. Beautiful beautiful!
