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  • I’m sitting in the backseat, windows down, head lolling in the hammock of the shoulder belt, looking up at the twilight of the longest day of the year; the clouds, the tree branches and the buildings sail, like scraps of fabric, over my head, and we round the corners of slanted intersections and thread our way through pedestrians who cross the bias of the asphalt under smudgy rings of traffic lights.

    From this underside, I can see the loops of power lines, the sloppy running stitches of foolish earthlings, as we, the universe's amateur seamstress, labor to sew the earth to the hem of the Sky.

    The Sky stands patient for the moment in our sewing room but taps her feet and checks her star-studded watch, anxious to celebrate the solstice in her sumptuous Parrish blue gown.

    We tug at the hem, mouth full of needles, as we beg her to notice how much more lovely the dress would be with the tulle of phosphorescence and an embroidery of red-orange neon, but try as we might, we can not sew fast enough.

    Because, even if she ever wanted our help with her outfit, or would ever, even in a billion years, be willing to tuck us, for safe keeping, into the folds of her garments, we'll never know,

    for she is already gone, sweeping out the door to dance with someone else.
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