I know summer's bacchanalian weave is all
quarks and leptons, though even the shadows
look green in early evening's holographic drift.
Like most creatures on this orphaned planet
I'm an evolving past with a parallel life or two
yet no matter how solid I feel I'm just part of
Earth's roadside pointillism, every fall-away
edge and molecular wave out of range, thanks
to the eye's agoraphobic hold. How real is this
world? Maybe the senses decide too much --
not sure what to think, sitting here by the coiled
hose while night blindfolds another horizon,
the present looking rough and bumpy as usual,
sparkle flaking from the stucco's pokey stars.
Sally Molini co-edits Cerise Press (www.cerisepress.com). Her work appears or will appear in Barrow Street, American Letters & Commentary, Denver Quarterly, Cimarron Review, Diagram, and other journals. She lives in Nebraska.
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