Matchbox

Several images hover and then devolve on walks , in a walk’s thought on grass away from creatures, men and buildings as dry leaves come flying, wiggly worms emerge from the earth in its first rain.

In its velvety softness lay a rain-breeze ,an index finger richness for feel at the tip ,soft at the core, walking as in its dream ,a tiny four-footed red velvety creature ,that may laugh in new matchbox home.

The thing has to exist in furrows of rain ,amid columns of sleet ,dodging though giant pillars to sky, whose stony selves fizzle down to clouds as our eyes look up .A white killer hail falls like pearl-drops on their soft rich redness, their velvety bodies may lose their backs to the pearls their ruby existence wiped off to dreams. A child’s matchbox is a much safer home.

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