Monsoon

Wet, you.

Oppressive, you.
Humid, you.

The smell,

…you.

BFM

Drank Drunk

I gathered my-me, my-self, my-I under the silver maple’s spout. I unlatched the hatch that covered the cup that’s hidden in my head. I drank drunk her unfettered liquor hoping to cure the hole that is my chest. However after all the ounces, cups and pints I drank, my gray matter started to crank, first left, then right. I spin ‘til spun falling deep in grass where I slept under a quarter moon’s light, ‘til two roots of Ms. Maple ascended pulling and pushing me through Br’er Rabbits doorway, hall, bedroom, bath, down his drain a thousand leagues beneath her leaves that gathered stardust for her toes, as the roots dangled mine three feet above flame bringing her consumed liquor to boil, then steam, then distilled. drop. drop. drop.

B.F.M