Frances Dreamt a Forest Fire

Frances dreamt a forest fire, late last night. The air was burning rubber tires, way past light, smoke making hornets sleepy on my oak back porch. Ten thousand years ago, hornets and bees divorced, stinging infant pupal larva in the dusty pews downtown, and fled south to Virginia in the summer to be found. It was a vitamin deficient week when autumn soaked its toes. Incarnadine, the burning trees dreamed only of ice floes north of the arctic circle, cold and wet and shivering. Against the gutters, branches carry on their nervous quivering like mice at play in attics, scurrying with tiny nails to avoid stepping on batshit and their long pink hairless tails. Twenty dead and counting higher, countless neighborhoods of ash. The laundry’s finished in the dryer, pockets that were full of cash are now change scraping on the metal and the alarm wants to sing. Hornet on a flower petal; hyacinth to sting and then return to hours later if the wind cooperates. Send a note to the creator tell him that love’s too much like hate and now everyone is sleepy. Still asleep and still confused. It’s obvious the sky is speaking, and we have all got the blues. So get the guitar that you left at the crossroad, ride with the people that you still barely know and at least be honest, the smoke made you tired. And last night, Frances dreamt a forest fire.


~ by perfectionatrix on December 10, 2009.

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