A whitedusk one
A rainbow came out the corner of my sky's mouth.
It was a hissing cat like days before autumn's reddish blonde scorched all our great stutters.
Still broad sunlamp. Glitter or salt coming in to central parts of the face while a newsquirrel palmed something through soil.
Clattering near a people-bus and the dry-skin litmus glaze winds before I went back for a grasp at the moon.
Quickly in motion I turned to a girl in the street. It wasn't even dark yet.
Leaves rattling under bone stamp made the fabric-crisp trickle every humour nerve. What was this for?
"This seems unusual," I bellowed at the girl through icy nostrils.
The perfect December muffle-phlegm sloshed over the candlestick breeze when we both waited for silence to crumble.
"I have to deliver every single one," she winced holding some rectangular whitebrown objects. The red of her eyes rendered her shallow face pink.
Looking along doorsteps a few letterboxes smiled glass-thin. I waited until the others were done - then watched a shadow beam against hidden mortar rows.
Traffic crisscrossed our palms, a sort of snow drawn on metal arteries.
Minds in tune.
Well-basked medium thoughts cleansing off, sailing over dusky primal shades.
Creaking in the silent shiver of trees. I'd hidden my knees where nobody else could see them - stored my friendly skin up and wore it in blackness.
There was another portion of moon so I threw a cloud over the sheen until everyone's lights were switched on.
Still further along this slope the girl sloshed as if a memory beyond streetcameraphone: I glanced off her between car and arm.
Drifting and crisping up we were disappearing now like minor characters in train stations as shadows greyed us out into night.
Frozen motions when I flicked the air away off brushes of fabric.
There, straight-laced sadness hovered on the girl's face - a face bobbing, a star exploding on estate-road concrete mangles.
I opened my hands for a final time. Snook about sniggering before the earth had shook itself into warmth.
We didn't even know we were alone and the brightness of our arms scorched a withering lantern bulb.
Finally I clicked my body and said a little rumble. What was this for?
Glass box, hedge, glass, laburnum, stained pine.
"Some of these houses aren't ready yet," I thundered at the girl through icy pastels.
A rainbow came out the yellow of my skin's throat.
© Copyright 2016 John Maher