At Rudy's: thin pizza slathered with anchovy and garlic, another with black olive eyes. In the grotto of the pizza parlor, one child screams with delight.
Two doors open and I see the breeze caress the redbud leaves. I stew in the mugginess within my cave.
THOUGHTS:
Turtles mate. Two plates conjoining what we see as one. They rest above, below in still snapshots that can't convey the lust, the odor nor the parting gasp, both changed, unchanging as the earth that gave them birth, our world they carry on their backs.
Sadness is turned to joy, becomes sad once more, is brought to the heights of ectasy, pure energy, is recycled again and again.
To the folks of New Madrid, Missouri: it's not your fault that rifts occur and wounds now buried will not heal without a shake or two.
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