Each day ends up monumental. I lay in them as though in a mammoth footprint. On my back and shoulders something like Heavy. Like snow, though I wouldn't know about anything like that.
He stood over me, the yellow trees along the two-lane, barely cast a shadow.
There is a posture: the quilt on the bed, the white sheet, the delay. Where do the deer go in the rain? Where do the deer go in the rain?
The white flowers from the trees run ragged like styrofoam across the parking lot. I return to the day.
How does the dried dead snail cling to the curb like that. The corpse melted, melded, touched the concrete and understood that truth could be found in staying there, perpendicular to the sky and to the lot. The whole lot. In my shadow I see strands jump laterally like kite strings.
Parabolas of movement - I saw a big pig, a black boar, on the side of the freeway. On the side of the fence where one must assume its death will be automized.
I've thought about what I would say if someone asked me what I was doing -
There is still a rhythm missing in most of it, though sometimes, I hit upon it and can hear it singing.
I hold my head behind the ears to see what it might feel like for other hands - someone see what it feels like. I remove my coat and inspect the dander, run like styrofoam, like white flowers. I return to the room twice. I return to the room twice because of how it smells, the bed, the mirror, the deadened black stain in the front room.
One fact about me is I like to sing in the car.
People require silence now, no rotary chatter, no accent, no incident.
The birds rest on the stones. The deer won't cross the fence line. He stood over me, hair the metal dish, glasses to see the deer and the clear free day.
