Wednesday, February 11, 2015


The works of contentment and pleasure are of the Day. Here are some of the textures a rat might touch: dimpled plastic, the rutted floor of a cast iron pan, a flaw in the carpet. The rat needs to touch what he runs beside. There's a word for it that begins with a T. At some point in the middle of the journey of our lives, the dark wood fills with letters unattached to words. Sounds sway like bamboo, clattering to no obvious meaning except that they touch. It's like the instant noise becomes sound becomes pillow talk between newly wed Christians through a thin interior wall. She gains comfort when she prays that she can forgive them who hurt her. To be able to is not to forgive, but to find the off-ramp that sickles its way toward F. Her lines lacked syllables, but began as a perfect acrostic. I advised her not to tell.

--11 February 2015

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