rain all burned away

the horseflies are an irridecent green

plums boiled down to pulp

drying on a screen



bright red air inside the house here

i can barely draw breath

dark blue shapes popped behind my eyelids

i am not afriad of death



and on the television

black and white footage of the young casius clay

my god, my god, my god

he was something



fists flashing as he comes toward the screen

sailing headlong into nothing

and disappearing

reappearing

out there in the clearing

floating down the slight breeze

that plays along the edge of the leaves

it's you.

it's you.

it's you.