the hailstorm brings out the fox,
and all the adjectives thereof. sparing the
words for breath, suffice it to say,
very little progress was made in the endeavor.

that is, shining the new perspective of
why the sky must drop ice in the middle of
a summer so destitute that one can wonder
about the origins of such things; and, to a lesser extent,
why the beast would dart so casually, slinking about
the moonlight, across the yards of suburban consciousness.

there are many things unwrapping tonight;
this thread being one of the sweater,
but woven off color, just slightly so,
as we notice the imperfection regardless
of the mass perfection surrounding it.

and, as the thread pulls, the fox slinks away into
the street, distanced from start to end,
as the peculiarity of midsummer hail
is far less a question as it was when the
evening started. that thread,
was a mass of perfection, so
casually ignored.

08/01/2004

Posted on 08/01/2004
Copyright © 2024 Andrew S Adams