I.
I guess that could be a short story, he says.
Meaning, nearly getting run over by one's lover's wife.
Not a poem?
Maybe a poem.
Maybe a poem.
He's on his third beer, I'm nearly done with my
second.
Later I'll be cold, want to steal part of his
cigarette. I don't smoke anymore. I never smoked.
Later the dogs will be fighting and I'll have to
run downstairs.
Meanwhile, it's not a novel. A short story at
best.
How short?
Twenty four hours later, a magic number, there is
still the ghost of a cigarette on my fingers.
II.
We're speaking idly of cloning ourselves.
She's speaking of having a hand that works.
In some cases, perhaps, the event precedes the
idea of the event.
III.
There is no pride in dissolving but there is the
dissolution itself, which is not the same
as having dissolved.
This is not a story either. Solid and then not.
Once glass was said to be liquid but lately I
heard on the radio
that it is not. Does this mean movement
has not occurred?
The windshield wiper blades on my car need
replacing—there's a smear
every time they move across whatever we do or
don't agree that surface is...
The glass itself. A definite volume but no fixed shape.
Every time
this movement occurs. This is not the same as
having dissolved.
