It wasn't the time, it was the color. My mother wore a yellow dress. Carrying my brother. The summer always stung. . Bright like metal. The bank was built.
In the doorway, in the doorway. It was easy to forget. With his hands upon my waist. In my old Italian dress, I was dizzy, I was guilty. I wanted to confess in the doorway.
The sun reflected on a passing car. Flashed like a signal or a star. I saw myself die under an on coming semi. Wanting to say I love planet earth. . One road goes through the reservation.