In The Middle Of This Muddle Of Urban Blight

In the middle of this muddle of urban blight;

a huge lot---acres even, perfectly levell covered

with the finest of soft, clean, minisule grains of sand---

speaks to the final and permanent removal

of an armaments factory where bombs, or napalm,

or something even more heinous,

even more unimaginable,

was provided to slaughter people.

Now, shoeless and shirtless,

your long hair cascading over your bare shoulders;

your jeans the color of the sky above you,

your socks striped with the colors of autumn leaves,

you enter that place of absence and silence,

and frolic, basking, in the light of solar fusion

that arrives with a seeming of eagerness;

and with a seeming of licentiousness,

caresses your body all over,

having lasted through the long journey

of ninety-three million miles just to find you there.

 

Starward

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