by Steven J. Serafiani


I bent over a lawn chair like the flames bend over our nostrils and the foxes bark and cry and fight in the distance and the chair bends and the moon hangs low crescent and the stars blink light years away and the vision tunnels and the drinks pour and the guitar strings cry and mind wanders into the timber and the sentences meld together and the laughter is dissonant and the bottle is passed and the pull and the youth prevail and the mind wanders and the chair bends and flexes legs and the moon hangs low and wanes and the guitar fragments and the wine ferments and the beauty is present and the present is beauty and tomorrow we work and tomorrow we dance a dance of pretend and tomorrow our mythology spreads and the chair bent over I.