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Looking at pictures of water doing wet things:
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by Craig Turnwall
We've started to take ourselves in God hibernate far too seriously Mind as an alligator she said walking Puritan navigation course across the short little courtyard mixed with juniper blinds and lilac bushes bursting in violet flowers, a holy ground thought caught up in lawn grass shavings, a magnificent dress caressed downward, well below the ankle dream and white powder, tossed in Victorian Whig, a prime candidate to all the silver and black eye shadow, thrushed in blue satin, picnic table red beyond ant's legged eye, course lumps of weeded grass mound like sand ruts bladed from heel run kisses on the beach, or sand next to a lake here in Nebraska, a wrist fan bend, dresses and coats left three unbuttoned hot white stockings and single buckled shoes privy toward left arm bent ninety degree angle behind the small of the back and rose blushes marked on high cheek bone notch, a small, delicate ride for brass and silverware clouded off a back balcony, bay window over veranda tapestry, gazebo to no white wash, we're all painting now, I've lost it somewhere within the darkness, in the manifest of late night days, speak none of which, none, Mandy Allen and a snow day away in dream, white and all white with pink skin...
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Craig Turnwall
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