Every single one of us is a child staring at an empty glass.
If you ever get stuck in a door, open the valve and shut the gate. Child- red face
the winter lasts longer when you’re walking backwards. We caught our first sun burn on the last day of social studies.
Every teacher is still a person of earth. Everyone corrupted by their ideas- a shard of iron.
Scraps of food lay at the foot of our bed, all the moulding is scratched. The ribbons are all piled on the rug, a burberry mattress. A coil of copper.
The child makes lists out of the creation of thought. Paper written on by thieves. The cake came through the door with nothing but knives.
We first saw it at the edge of the hall, the rim of our glass was a prairie fable. It told us a story, that we only wanted to believe. It was so sad and tired-like. The trubedor spells his words with color. Simple and dry.
Rain. A wet apple, cold in the river. The sun burn healed after a few long days. The glass spread lotion between the gaps in my lungs. White and shriveled with wine.
Vacuums of vacation, vapor- summer stones stop at the edge of your face.
So enjoy, and agree, and don’t think so much about it. Everyone tries not to stare at the glass. It sits effortlessly on the table. Child-like. Skin stretched over clear bones.
Each one of us is a better version of who we think we could be. Each thought gets in the way of the stone pillow ice cube tray that we try to defend.
So hold the hand of that person you’re looking at. Child. Hold the hand of whatever kitchen island you call safety.
The world is a terrible mess. And we are enjoying the center of that tired old man.
His wire, his throat. Everyone of us sliding through the silky, sick hair of his neck. Vapid- futuristic. Carry your chopped wood to the fire- to the edge of that poorly lit summer.
The sun burns and aches. The book turns over itself on the floor. The shelf. The counter, the glass, the kitchen island is just another ball that you grab, and throw.