We are fictions

Brian Dang

through the burning sun drawing away
           clouds
or the            cicadas
       loud on wind chimes
chiming for the swell of
spring, springing
towards    le
       a  v
         e    s
swaying in the softened
swirls of a midday gust,

rust drafts over the
hammering,
drilling,
yelling strung in the air as
   s
     w
    e
      a
         t        drips onto
sanded planks of birch wood,
the doorframe still needs to be built,
and I see a child trip and tower
over a homeless panhandler at the
intersection and
            my mother
            is cities away living her life,
            too
she’ll never know
about this walk, or about
my life here, in this city,
and she’ll have her own fiction
of me, and maybe she’ll write in prose.

Through the afterglow of dusk, the
clattering tools, the burning sun begins
to die.

The peek of stars is eminent,
and somewhere there, too, someone
is watching us, their own taxes and
death to deal with, and maybe
they’ll speak to us through telepathic
mind waves.


About the Writer
Brian is a writer of prose and poetry dealing with all manners of the everyday filtered through words trying to leave the page.

Editor: Sun

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