Friday, September 28, 2012

March 21 - Untitled, Theater Class

Running my finger tips along your spine is like running my hand across the Appalachian Mountains on the globe on your desk.  It has been locked in place since you found it in your basement, always prominently displaying America.  Your parents myst have been nationalists, they have made it forever spring here.  I can imagine hearing the bloom of trees forever about to flower.  It is the sound of rustling sheets.  I want to draw a map with my finger tips, turning you into a facsimile of the globe.  Adding states borders and rivers and forests.  Mountains and valleys.  But you laugh when I start naming the peaks, and you turn over.  Making it winter on our own little American map.

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