And so traverses, gun in hand, the creek. We on the other side waiting dreamily as for a wave. The head of the tree is heavy. The pears are not ripe. I do not dare look up, seeing as the day has splurged against my face and you are on the other side where the grid breaks into tiny oracular tiles, wafer thin, distorted, pale. The huge sound is mechanical, not expressionistic: things into other things, exploding. The serial furthers. Were you wearing a sombrero or just a hood to keep hot chords from your skin? Serial, as in many tunes, many kills, weeping additions and accumulating, dry remainders; the cost of endurance. Copyright © 2017 Ann Lauterbach. Used with permission of the author. |
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