Napalm Wig

by Heath Brougher
 
Walking in on the breeze 
to blurry eyes and a half-held heart.
Coming in through the window then exiting by door.
 
Above, a purple sky stretches out
lonesome and long into the  horizon.
 
A flammable gust kisses the neck of the woods
as pupils stare out from the upstairs
of a house of Human Body where lunacy can be struck
instantly and bounce off the walls for hours,
especially when evening blooms and the moon
slightly peaks its silvery head out from the gathering gloaming.
The wind then thickens into a juice or jelly
of hot summer breezes, scorching gales,
as the storm churns onward, ripening in foment,
raging in biting and burning whorls of fire
running across czarina dresses, stealthily through unborn days,
like apricot shrubs that dance but don’t.