fresh cut distress Mason Goodrich, Second Place
2/2 The apricot in the liquid sky made the air taste molasses—quite ripe. Losing breath, it drowned and browned and the air was honey again, the moon its milky companion. The snake tongues of the front yard, green and hissing together, stretched to one side in the dirt, licked up every drop of the blueberry night, and limp-heavy, left dew for the lawnmower to cough on as it lost them their right to tattle on and on about the wind. Thereon, they clung to young feet and finally found themselves familiar, forgotten with the frothy parched-dry carpet.
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