honeydunce

I see it now. The stacking, the rows and rows all built with pivots–some corners connected while
others stand abbreviated like a cliff filmed at the end of the reel. Even the shadows they
throw we invent story for. To extract one would be destroying a city, a planet, a universe. As
every answer built a question and every question built experience(and what does not kill you
simply does not kill you…so delicate and so tremendous like shaping the last sliver of soap
into a swan).

Are you unsettled? Are you warm? Did you ever consider the fingerprints, ever consider not caring
to leave one? The sixth grade visitations when I wore a red dress because I didn’t have
anything else, and the minister warned and soothed simultaneous with his talk of life being a
vapor, how one cannot command to hold it. However here I am most definitely more than
drifting. If it cannot be touched then how did I feel it, what of the room around me dancing,
my own eyes drawn to floor and feet as the snow fell outside and I thought of everything I
lost and gained from losing, and how and how. Then what of the way the darkness hides you
aside from the lone streetlight that refuses to be subdued by the curtains. The one that drops
on your face right on the lips. What of seeing that and the deep quiet wondering of I hope I’m
not too late? By the time it seems right to mention it, the night is gone. The light is back and
the magnitude fades. But that instant of holding and held has been known to keep me kicking
for days.