It was there

It was there we passed through the night. In those throated bowels of concrete turning stony megalith grey and double flashing as coupled shadows periodically pulse through the sliver of light cast toward our den.

As if this cavern, this Mammoth, this hall, this den we curl under were warm, were mauve, were not grey. We nestled against the mauve amidst a towering construction of fine folded folding tables, of real wood, pressed upon itself by pressure, their plastic copings perfectly fitting the circumferences, their bifolding legs: some dangling and swaying as caressed by some breath as we lie beneath, some more rigorous than the periodic galvanization in moonlight of thigh high fence posts, as a root forest caressing the relics of our face. The dense nebulous thicket of shadow in the wall crook, a thorny bramble of alley grasses, passing fingers by floodlights, poly fabric curtains pleated and weighted by beads lining their hems.

Critical Response:

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