Thursday, August 17, 2006
Before the fruit ground to pulp, to reveal what it has inside, there is the shower to soak my soreness. With the water running through the hair on my chest. Rivultets like a creek. Water over the fungus blossoming on my back that I'm nurturing, plaster grit in my hair, whatever else I'm carrying from yesterday. Little life shed, begone. Washed away and under the city. We invite water into our homes and it carries us away. Running in darkness, running fast and clear, with it's own mold blossoming. Billowing under current, passing over bricks, eddying red and green.