St. Louis No. 1

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Yellow sun
Fires grey headstones.
Her red hair is bundled
Inside a woven straw hat.
I could melt here,
Soak through the cracked concrete
And mossy limestone

And seep through the roots of the land
Troubled eternally by rising water
Returning.

I would work my way
To her soft smile

As mud,
Sludge,
Ascends to the surface,
Loses form in the relentless heat,
And drifts as mist
To the darkly lovely clouds
Of the sudden midday storm.

- 6/11/12