DOROTHY LUNE

My mothers My mother is squeezing an apple down a funnel leading into the juice bottle, her mother did, & her mother did also, so on & so forth. I see a mother fluent in Yorta Yorta squeezedan apple on the ground I walk on & the trails I take. Bonework doesn't seem like much in increments, it fills in time, rain does not have small enough hands to hold a beauty such as this. Ones who notice are ones who hurl a stare at their ceiling fan until fanlight appears to be shaking or is the fan's spinning & light blending? It becomes a white sharpened blotch like a napkin. They love as crimson as what once was the apple's skin & as sweet & hydrating as the inside. At the first cry Iam thirsty, my mothers are apple juice, I stick my tongueout for rain.
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