Tuesday, September 25, 2007

I see that you've drawn your maps without oceans, there.

I've got all of my pencils sharpened and my tights laid out for winter, and listening to a certain bass line almost doesn't make me wince along all of my vital organs anymore. But I've still got only this one hammer, and still only enough iron under my skin for this one nail. I don't want to pull all of this left over together with strings but I really can't say how long it takes to grow back the stuff for one more nail. If growing ever really happens again.

The scissors that you used to cut your strings were scissors you bought from a shark, their teeth matching and sharp and strangely fitting together. You used clothespins that opened like eyes to hang your bundle out the window like a sign, a flag announcing what could only be called open.

And still there's this landlocked map waiting here. I would hold the mirror up to it, to see if it fogs the glass, still breathing, but you stole all of the silver to line your eyelids. The soil misses the ocean, I can see it in the droop of the continents, but I have used up all the longing for this year, and all that's left is to hold this map close while the sun breaks over the crest of its brown hills.

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