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09/29/2020
Floyd
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The tree, the mountain and the Bering Sea
Glimmering green, boreal pearls float as if mists of needles had been frozen in falling in shimmering stills. A cool wind blows around my ears. Rough height here. Hear a light hissing between the branches of the fir, ethereal and fresh. Liberated chest. The mountain. The tree
Bees build wooded honeycombs from flower butter in wood. They chew lumps of it. Becomes waxy. Warmer somehow.
Soon the humming and whirring of a distant demonstrator begins, the deceptive Timbersilk Trumanshow, light blue sky hangs in the dome, a healthy mountain stream rushes through the wooded honeycomb butter, sends the bees in the spicy cloud of a Moschen Ambrettes through the wild canyon, smears the green mist of the needles to a turquoise television of the wind of the Bering Sea, which like a mirage soon hangs upside down mountain and tree. A clinically clear spa shadow remains close to me for five hours, then all the trees, the mountain and the Bering Sea have disappeared.
(With thanks to Gold)
Soon the humming and whirring of a distant demonstrator begins, the deceptive Timbersilk Trumanshow, light blue sky hangs in the dome, a healthy mountain stream rushes through the wooded honeycomb butter, sends the bees in the spicy cloud of a Moschen Ambrettes through the wild canyon, smears the green mist of the needles to a turquoise television of the wind of the Bering Sea, which like a mirage soon hangs upside down mountain and tree. A clinically clear spa shadow remains close to me for five hours, then all the trees, the mountain and the Bering Sea have disappeared.
(With thanks to Gold)
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