Heart Attack Country

Softly you enter the red tide, that sateen landscape lithographed on the back of eyelids. Aging means not caring anymore. A sea of sidewalks await-- celestial and gray in the evening tonality. It always ends that way. A magenta moon embosses a chiaroscuro sky. A cicada churns ancient stories in the netting of apple trees. Motionless, you blend with earth, one ear sojourned with new-mown grass. We enter and re-enter that awful under land, that soft sluicing of a thousand salmon in the distance. It always ends that way vining upon the portico of moon as gray-edged thrushes ferret the sky.