By Kenneth Lipp
By the Schuylkill, unfiltered this I was four lenses wide-eyed at least three miles, bare below the fulcrum but the vernal shuddered off the chill.
Collared encounters upon a knoll, horned, the downed arrow of latitude.
I chase sunlight to frame on stone, pace a giggling surrey, and fellow travelers gerrymander statuesque as I resolve to shoot the subject not the scene.
I desiccation ended, stomata fresh from gasping gleeful, respire stains and sneakers so I circle, I have come across a reclamation. The frosty breathless superlatives did not spell Perdition. Jade is not evergreen, we just have a perennial affection for the scales.
Mixed traffic, all brazen domestication, calisthenic cavalier they flank Fairmount amnesiac, prodigal un-penitent as if they never doubted clover, or freckling flesh, or guiltless love.
I blink an opening idiom in a sunset flutter, cross the arterial perpendicular into the sinister gravel, and while never one to widow-walk in wait for Summer Boys, narrative value is narrative use.
Seasons fickle lye, the collective disposition of a billion far-flung spinning orbs and monoliths of frozen dust. Rubbernecking panic pictures parking lot, nothing is more urgent than light.