"Rosemary and I"

                               Rosemary blinked from her first story living-room window, looking out onto the neighborhood's sleeping rural sidewalk. Consequently dense in domesticated summer, residential outskirts  rest languidly upon buried-aged foundations; condensed prickling auburn foliage over jagged sedimentary stone.  Creased bushes and thunder-droughts dried and- (you can crush them between your fingertips). The early autumn seed, and cruel ripe nectar. Beaten marble rock and velour shades of evening. Night-toned moonbeams surface and eclipse above, descending downward, falling gracefully, to Ohio's vast crescent cornfields. Midwestern and seasonal: Let us pause and grimace, it is quite current that death beckons her.
                              Rosemary; isolated and strawberry blond; pensive upon a maroon-cushioned loveseat, possessing a deep longing for the afternoon city. Cryptic and elusive: daytime thoughts sweeps through her frail subconscious. The dim-lit kitchen upholstery and antique coffee table fragments. Wall-hung imitations in momentary panic. Van Gogh's' sunflowers quickening in broad retractable sun shadows, that permeate above the carpet. Wallowing in existence and mockery. The soap rack and liquid soap dispenser. Cotton linens crusted in deluded detergent, myriad gnats and swamp flies swarm along pestering lake-land perimeters, while the shallow ghost of low-class economics binds one's starry-eyed vision.
                              It is the evening of our minds that stagger out onto village walkways; while crimson dust of futile belonging grows cold and withered. Putrid along with August heat, our bones degrade, desensitize, one's memory plateaus then disintegrates. We hear the youth-like cries that surround a populated township circle, left frayed and murmuring. Agriculture's diamond baseball fields and silent side-shows. Hidden footbridges converge with unresolved creek currents. 
                              Wandering years drift in and out through my dreary perception, while distant desert morning frost awakens in stale hope of hope itself, or all that imaginary dreams have to offer. I sit and listen; waiting patiently for the pale eyes of destiny to find me, (after tracking me down for so long.) Through long-awaited passion and untempered fury. My disease grows calm with the transparent trickle, of the one fatal guaranteed cure.