before beginning my screenplay

i write just one poem (or blog) -- greasing the gears -- an odd pastiche of script and sonnet.

this time it's Afghanistan -- poppies and ice.

Marjoram sans burhka.

Brown-brown eye’s spread out, warm.

still wet, glistening.

Wind HOWLS deep, polishing stone.

Shooting past poked-marked loam.

Vertical roads, replete with potholes.

Dripping dust.

Dropping dirt.

Big puffs -- sand; billowing and dissipating.

Twisted up good now on exposed root -- concrete arteries, straining.

Screaming for soil;

Security;

Safety.

And deep down the mountain crevasse, it numbs her toes.

Her nose;

Fingernails -- ice-trays;

Lips -- slushies, solid and blue.

Not quite cracked.

Not quite chapped.

The bulbous bud sweeps over her, like a blanket straight from the dryer on a sharp Sunday afternoon.

Head cocked to the left, flowing up up and away.

A fever dream that lasts half the day.