Bees Pulling the Lilac by Shelby Moore
The purity of the apple blossoms is incredible, shadows as long as they are northern and every-vine-stock is like the crack-up of books. Ralph flew to Bristol to see her; the curl of her blond hair, “You don’t mind if they sit next to me on street cars,” their arms nudge, and moved gently west. But then, if you put a cigarette out in it, they brush shoulders. “I don’t mind if they sit next to me on street cars.” “I am happier than you are …” Her breath comes and goes under the green gas lamps, exactly numerous. They lost their way in the holy wood, walking waist deep in the fog coming in from the ocean. Most people remember their gardens with cement flowers, solidified swimming pools or lilies of gold, cream, rose — strong ankled, sun burned, almost naked. So, they found an audience ready, smoking the right cigarette and waiting for evening’s grace. “Your husband’s shirt to wash, please.” Laundry of that lovely absurd summer. and on and on, like a hat being taken by the winds.
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