Something is Slipping Sideways in Me?

A grinding halt of my wheels, of productivity—no shoulder there. Barren,
is this what one becomes? Like dust blown in wild deviled eddies into the soft clay of deep, furrowed, dirty necks? Faces wrinkled, dried like the soft peach leather of apricots laid out to fleece in rows on screens, fruits only suitable for winter, too tough and bitter for children to tear with their white-pearled rows of teeth.

Give it a row!

One side to the other in that dead-sea dream I saw a giant pale snake, blow or boa, it’s head in a wooden cave swallowing something, a somebody, whole,

and I was pointing from a window up above.

Where are the roots, the ball I planted in sand—washed out and away, too close to the rivers’ edge? Maybe, I walk and walk to try and get away? Yet, hornets fly fast to follow the sharpened honey scent of older women and unlike the sweetened hum of those at the May Lithodora, these can sting and sting and sting and still, meanly live! Tailing anything purple, or red, especially those outfitted in hats and glasses.

Photo Credit: Heather Gill/unsplash
Note: I believe these are plums and not apricots, but regardless, lined up the same.