Golden Hour
land contact in petition, the birds
By bishnu prasadPublished 11 months ago • 1 min read
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My hand out the vehicle window:
the fields convey me home in their
quietness, wherever are open palms
of wheat-yellow. Between each
phone wire, I strip my
memory to when he saw the sky and
land contact in petition, the birds
flying looking like a fast fuck.
That absurd, silly kid marked by
yellow at brilliant hour prior
slipping into a dark suit — the evening,
paparazzi with prepared eyes blazing
once more, to see him. What's more, I see him.
The request stays away forever, replied.
The day is a stunt. A grimy, filthy stunt.
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