You, pairing socks from a basket of white socks; who would think to touch you? Still, though less than now, a brilliance shadows your wishes, becomes your eye from vacant windows, vies perhaps for spots of your grizzled time, slips …
I hear the wind. I have been thinking about hearing it. It answers more questions than it raises. It’s been so long that the spaces seem too big. If you move slowly each toad, tiny or fat, will leap out …
I lay on my back and ground smooth the seams joined underneath by nets to mud dust. No, I stood and looked into the whiteness of the sky and scrubbed the clouds. No, it was a rhythm of static crawling …