dusk | the south

a breeze on my face —

a typical summer southern day.

the crisp sizzle of clear soda on my tongue,

at dusk after work and after half of my brain has quieted down.

dusk. a parking lot with leaning, flaking yellow posts.

it breathes dusk —

it breathes that rancid yet curious air I smelled when I laid my first step

in a seven year series.

dirt and trees and exhaust and sand and grasshoppers too fast for my grip.

it took a breath of the sometimes lilting wind chimes when it storms.

it takes a breath of the last hurricane and the never forgotten split tree you see on the main road in.

i wonder why they never cut it down.

it breathes in the scruffy, black, leather bound faces of the men in wifebeaters.

the round soft faces of women in polyester and gold.

the tobacco filled faces in faux foliage.

the clean faces in smooth linen and cotton and pastels.

the smell of shit from emotionless chickens and pigs.

the truck’s exhaust.

the red lake.

the kudzu.

the dogwood.

the stale last puff of a black & mild.

i have breathed what dusk has breathed,

& i have vehemently hated and missed dusk.



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