--- A M Y H O L M A N
Seedy and era-lost, a sort-of circus settled one summer on Avalon's baseball field and the season's shopkeepers suddenly had children like me as the sun set over the crabby bay. Not that Avalon where might knights, finally weightless in their chain mail and metal mitts, catch fly balls in the outfield, but a beach town in a South Jersey barrier chain with a summer stage of ice cream parlor and surf shop. And like these travelers with voluminous tent and scratched horse trailer for paint by number freaks, two headed snake and mangy lion, who need believers to brighten them with longing and surprise, Avalon unfolds worn and graceful from the quiet maroon of winter and spring. We are visitors double, summer people at a carny. We are stunned soft for this eve, drifting over the diamond into dark tents like sleepwalkers to gargantuan, overturned anemone blooms.
© crossconnect 1995-2001
published in association with the |
university of pennsylvania's kelly writers house |