Saturday, February 07, 2009

Crunching late through frost-ripened grass, I want to yell things, but there are no echoes worth talking to in these parts, nothing to yell at that yells back.

It is almost as though, having once slid a hand down the length of my bones, you have managed to convince yourself fully knowledgeable about the topography of my joints. An expert on the way everything under my skin slips against everything else, on how this gristle propels these bird bones through space. Even though all of those particular connections are a mystery even to me.

Like a mime caught in a heat wave, his smile slipping down his face and staining his turtleneck, I am suddenly not so good at keeping all of my imaginary balls in the air. So I'm quitting juggling, and taking up hunting for echo. There has to be a useful canyon around here somewhere.

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