Attic Fires

On the need to season with hot peppers:
Both tortured and penitent was the afternoon in heaven.

On tangents and alignments:
Who said the suitcase by the stairs?

Open country:
We thought nothing of killing, rain flew through us, we were invisible.

At the track:
Cars like tumbling boulders from a volcano, nowhere to run.

Hiding in plain sight:
Pure and generous words were forbidden so we made do with scraps of kindness.

Westward:
We tore the seats apart to make snow shoes and carried meat in socks.

Gestation period:
Jackson Pollock lying on his back watching the wind rustle the plum trees. 

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