As the sheets would turn then so would their square
so their shapes were fragile but not the sheets. As the bed faltered
and tired the breasts in the clouds relaxed.
As fast as a cow giving birth to a cheetah,
inertial like that.
As summer was just an expanse of runway and no flight
for the very heavy, when thistles latched onto its skirt it flounced them
so high as to become misled by their travel.
Once its springs were eternal enough.
Wasted and bleached like an opposite
seasonal affective disorder or only its weight in water, it came home
with another order of parachutists, full of air, trailing linen through a sea of flax .
© 2006 Julie Choffel