shadow hills roving the urban foothills damned to a neighbor's glimpse behind thin heat-shimmer curtains that separate this world from the spirit world – his truck parked in the willows, but for its tiny flag hidden in semi-escape mode always pointing down toward safer ground the strange architecture flows of their fortress home built into the hill's face gray wooden walls braced on round faux stonework cannonballs her blighted guardian tree with its arms cut off – I think the stumps resemble a fountain bowl, imaginary fear on a real pedestal where mockingbirds might stop their pointless war, and pretend to drink © 2007 by Beth Stevens |
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