construction work
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Mason Goodrich, Second Place Like a mole on the face of the previously Perfect pitch-black parking lot of the Perfectly pitched, licorice brick church, it blemished into view, kindly, on an otherwise occluded day. God dropped us the pile on a good day. From fence-fort view, we emerged, ready, red, eager, especially, to see beyond the tip of the rain-rashed green steeple, but even more, to borrow and brandish the dumpster’s old Victorian deep crimson couch cushions as shields or sleds where we bled grey-brown instead of red. And then, wheezed we
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not! when a stray rock caught up our front flip race and ended in faceplant. God watched and I did not take His name in vain. But still, the cop car called to play: a maroon and blue beetle that ground the honey horizon to a stub of pollen, molted a new view closer and closer and closer, spread its seizure wings out—and finally blinding !¡!¡!
