This Muggy Hug of Rainless Anemia

I can afford no sympathy for the storm which both arrives and dissipates before unleashing. For once, I am clear minded and step forward thusly. Without waiting.

Therefore, another day of watering. Another turn of prolific heresy, coiling through perception's nagging atmosphere. But in this muggy hug of rainless anemia, I am happy.

In the exam room, Billy Joel vomits through the celling speaker . . . Darlin' only the good die young. Did you know that red-heads bleed more? The doctor remembers after the first incision. Gray walls. White floor. Her red Mary Jane's shuffle around the table for better stitching.

One considers a pressure cooker for beans, recipes for restoration, and how to make things palatable without sugar. See? She isn't waiting for diagnosis. Or rain.

A sharp moon bores through pine filters with an effortless certainty. No matter what is decided, the moon has the last say. Tonight, as he cups his hands around my face, I am forbidden to look away.

It's really nothing more than this.