I DRAPE, with casual abandon, while taking the ROACH clip, a SCARF over my bare shoulders. I am the embodiment of teen pretense at sophistication, practicing my sexy wiles on my companion du jour. Ah, youth! Ah, time!

Georg’ann

TEARS, like the rain predicted
do not come
they hang heavy in the air
a pressure waiting for release
Occasionally a SPARK, perhaps the storm is coming?
At the surface everything is a SWARM
In the depths nothing is SCARY,
all sensation ceases
though I watch the light move in the curtains
like the billowy SCARF
my father painted in the sky above the temple
the fabric through which he strives in vain, to paint the hand of god.

Heather