Wednesday, October 2, 2013

"Mary At the Lake" by Walter J. Phillips

I am watching her watch something else. Her warm, peach skin stands out against endless amethyst. A bush rises up like a defense, and behind it her body disintegrates. Such senses - her gaze, hearing, smelling - stem from her face. That wistful expression. Beyond her the still and purple lake becomes inexplicably vast.

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