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Saturday, March 10, 2012

ETTA, 1958

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ETTA, 1958

He had twisted his ankle.
His foot was swollen and it ached.
It hurt to the degree that he could no longer concentrate.
He had lost the capacity to figure.
His mind could no longer grasp even very simple things.
He was preoccupied and his eyes seemed vacant.

He was young. He kissed the back of her hand,
He kissed her about the face,
He kissed her eyelids,
And he rested his lips at the base of her neck.

He had fervently kissed the skin
All-over both her shoulders.
He and she were minors, and their ardency,
Its possible consequence concerned their parents.
There was no question about the boy being strong.

They stood next to the side of a Sycamore ,
The tree grew along a muddy creek,
Which emptied west into a river,
A river the early French settlers had named Des Plaines.

He thought that they might sail away upon the waters.

Yet more, much more,
It was much more than the taste of salt,
The tiny sweat along her brow, the moist of her shoulders.

It was a night whose such awesome, absolute clarity

Enhanced a once-in-a-life-time, white light streak,
At its end a mighty bright flash erased the sky.

Though now near midnight, all nature cast a quick shadow.

In the light of that warm, late, August evening
Upon the bank of a muddy creek, a small water,
A nameless feed to the river,
The early French settlers had named Des Plaines.
The youths saw their silhouette,
They were merged as one,
They saw themselves fused into a single shade.
They had come to believe that memory of this event
Would grant them life in eternity.

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