Permission to Fall

Television static street interrupted at times Corn stalk impressions Millisecond lives of imperfect persistence, pockmarking the street. A few leaves let go too soon, some weaker seam in them parting while the others held, and held, now run aground in the static. Surely — I have seen before Blond vinyl torn, yawn… to splendid wood beneath, grained, true, the thing worth seeing. No weather did this. Forgetting did, slow, and shaped like a man who moved on. Turning aside, the poorly aimed washing Dances upon my cottened toes A fair mist of poison to my devices… A blessing to the southern hell.