Excerpt: Burrows

Metaphors. Mixed. The sky is like a tangerine cut up in segments ripe and unworthy like a bowl turned upside down glass and glaze and gliding light shining through from a swing arm lamp a hundred watts burning turning belonging to the universe. The sky is like something else to. The sky is like a butterfly fluttering fluttering buttery and beautiful battered by wind and rain and dark of night only to come out of the chrysalis afraid but bravely setting forth wings drying in the wind and the rain and dim of dawn’s early light. The metaphors are definitely mixed. The sky is like a turtle shell glossy and turquoise and flecked with silver and polished bone bits biting into heavy shellac. The sky is like it has never been and always will be. The sky is like a race track curving swerving glistening with deep summer heat rippling in the bright blueness and bright whiteness of cloud and strips of gauze. The sky is like a hopeful memory that is kept in a crystal chest filled with bauble and old baseball cards and wallet photographs and semi-precious tumbled bumbled stones and old movie stubs and hope on a chain. That is the sky. Mixed. Metaphor. Me.