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Somewhere Down the Walmart Road


What is that scent?  


That diffuse saturation  

from a resplendent gilt and snowy drop that 

winds beneath incandescent green,  


parasols of giants,  

a green that glows newborn


new against the burnt 

mauve clouds among the electrified 

ions around the forests of barked

beribboned Maypole trees that sway to the 

beat of an evening 





What is that scent that soothes  

the astringent, delicious sting of  

this fresh season’s labor? 


That slips between each  

red bud and tree as it wanders the  

ranges of stacked and lofty loamy curves  

echoing well and away  

through a  


bottle green  


skin black 

lurking early dew? 


The scent that proclaims, 

I am from down, down in the earth and  

I am alive, alive.  

This airy pungency flutters two girls  

who live in a trailer in a field  

next to a mansion, 

somewhere down the Walmart road, 

one born of her mother, 

one born of their older sister. 


They dance and run and dodge rain plops  
and pick those gilt and snowy drops, 

the honeyed succor that swathes  

the busted fence,  

the long and holey boundary of 

The Desolate Realm. 


With this, these girls weave haloes  

to settle upon 

their pierced brows.  


A sashay through the Maypoles at sunset demands

the grace and beauty of a fairy.  


They call to their kitten, 

their coal black tiny kitten, 

their brand new baby kitten, 

the one that dances and runs and plays 

and like the honeysuckle mewls, 

I’m alive, alive. 


The girls call, 

Here, Nigger!  

Here Nigger Nigger!  

Come on, girl!

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