In VirginiaKim Roberts
The light rises from the boxwood and hovers just above, like an extra skin. Those heavy clouds furrowed around our hilltop all week have broken up, split apart, and the sun is glinting off the wet earth like drum beats delineating bush, truck, pond. Even the pathway to the barn shines, humble asphalt beatified. But especially the boxwood. I never liked it so before. A skin of light, surfaces pocked with baroque patterns and lifting. I wish I could feel my skin lifting, infused with visible desire.
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