Thursday, March 20, 2008

Thursday, March 20, 2008. Just grab the cup out of the dishwasher. Rinse it out in the tap. Shake free of the dust. This is your morning wake-up call.

Stammering drunk up against the door post in the last days to wear a sweater. The rain falls far off, like the night we heard thunder and saw lightning and smelled it in the air. Warm dew but clear skies. You grabbed my hand and swung me into the back of your truck, telling me to drop down and disapear until it was clear. Clear was the field we lost our bodies to the unkept waves of wheat, laying there quiet till large drops dripped, coming from seemingly nowhere; the sky still clear but the sounds of the weather. I took a few stems from the earth but I lost them in the floorboard, pushed in with boots along with newspapers we stole from your neighbor's. Staying up late, sneaking into their yard to wrap the plastic bag around our wrists and swinging it to spite the fading moon. We fell asleep in ribbons, my head on the dash, yours slid up behind me. I don't remember waking up from the seats. I don't remember waking up. Wake up.