Another
instance, another retraction. Fits and starts.
In the distance
the landscape appears to move more slowly while up close
everything
whizzes by. The middle vacillates.
The middle is frozen. The way back
is clear. The way back is frozen. The direction is a red hotel
sign, swirls on the surface: another infraction.
Then again, I've seen how you fold; I've seen how it's all
distended. I've folded and refolded last night's silence, which still would not
fit. I've started—
Oops, fell into this again.This silence, this instance, this
traction.
Geography is inconvenient. Dark spots linger. Futile clicks.
Conceited, stuck-up dreams.
Gravity keeps me honest.
Everything
whizzes by.
