Parsing Parsley

Daniel Shea

Lick the salt off the back of your hand and imagine this: Color, any color other than white. Among bent native grasses in warm field, a spot, a comfort. A place for being, where the world comes offering music. Sun arching its back overhead and beating constant fodder. Centipedes rustling to nustle against warm hands. Moments rushing like heart beats and then content stopping in the silence. Wind oozing like the exhale beneath her voice. Shed the beard, these are the new sounds of spring hitting a fresh clean face.

Oh! Custer - Your Name (mp3) [buy]