Tuesday, May 20, 2008

The Pond Whose Bottom I Have Never Touched

Write hollow or else. But what is hollow. Or else what? I am hollow, or believe I am, feel that I am. As breathless as a chocolate bunny. As likely to cave. In Spring cusping on summer one observes a different kind of darkness. One with seams in it. If you keep the door open, some of that warmth will surely come inside.

Every summer I want to write down the date that I first see fireflies. Floating luminescence like sea foam. What hills would resemble if they weren't so still. The fact that I don't has to do with my fear of death, which is maybe to put too romantic a gloss on it. More, it has to do with how I resent both time and space and refuse whenever possible to be definitely in the matrix formed by them. This is not the same as immortality, not at all.

In the office, the sprouts lean over one another, grow pale, dry and thin as horse hair. Lost in the woods, Sophia worked her way to the river, which was familiar. When her voice sounded clear and certain over the wind, there was no panic in it, only trust that I would hear it, would respond. "I'll wait here," Jeremiah said when I left him on the causeway to go find her. Behind him, the pond whose bottom I have never touched rippled with wind tracks, rain spit.

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