Buffalo Wallow

Swamp night in frowsty summer. At Kutsu’s house, his great-grand’s three-room prairie villa, smoke sleaves out our tight wet leers. Rosemary royals the hose harsh. Crozzled schwag ashes tongues tin-brined with near beer blech, ponged by blue Solo pyramids. In the morning, church, Welch’s communion to burn off the chaos spirit, the florid bloom of free defiance.

backyard
shadow clowns
mingling dust
Seth Copeland

 

Buffalo Wallow

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