a little slice

So this is for MacShane: Guess who it’s about….

Upon the chair there where she sat, embracing those words with lucid eyes, rest her hand. Short like her, skin ran across those bones, over the nail, around the knuckle through the valley and to a plateau: Raised and prominent. Resting lay a cool, blue, pen. Buzzing around, floating through the air, coffee filled the room. As she lift her pen, to highlight what life meant. Drift. Slowly, slipping, sliding, falling, into place, off the page, she fell into…
Barely there, under her feet, pressing against the soft arch, intruding the space between her toes, the grass grew. A shepherd walked through her. Through her apparent, weightless, body. Alerted, her eyes gently twitched, as she gave way to the cattle in tow. As she surrendered she noticed a diamond ring in the sky.
“Bailey’s Beads,” she thought, “the moon is jagged, not smooth. She is even more beautiful when the sky is Pink and PeachPuff.”
And then she was gone…
Giving in to the ground, sprawled out, she lay unconscious. Circumnavigating her neck, raised up, minute links, chained, held her—geometric triangles, laid one on top of the other. She lay face up. Her open hands by her side, rest, gently, into the soft, willing grass. Broken. A mile away, sitting, was the Frisbee that dropped from the air.
Her dream journal was always open for entries: Tanglewords.