There will never be another morning to wake up to with them lurking just under the horizon. This zombie summer, stringy fried like okra and potatoes, incessant and split apart. Layed open like what my beloved therapist did to me, layed open like the fingers on my wifes' right hand. Did I not say no more fucking stitches?
These geographies underneath: that is not my hand, nor my head resting on it, the sidewalk I'm floating above, this is not my story outside my eyes. This is my story: A fire in the brain. The gnawing will never arrive over the sunrise, we shall extinguish, however, to wait for a mundane passing. Keep busy, meanwhile:
A group of us and our children gathering in a field. Trees that have been struck by lightening. A hundred-year-old snapping turtle yawning at the road before the bridge.
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2 comments:
. . . so pleasant to wake on a Saturday morning to words, words, words . . . special words in unexpected order . . . that somehow resonates with the rising mist of day.
thanks bill! we love you too!
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