\ this is the other

Cleanest way to come is runner’s high, just as the refrain hits on So. Central Rain, you are so very sorry you can’t slow down, even passing the days old possum, little atlas of its existence, strewn along the road. There are three or four sticks, all round the former eyes. Some kids poke and some kids prod, I s’pose.

I told this story, and feel like I’m betraying a trust, but sometimes you talk to someone, tell the exact same story (ONLY DIFFERENT) and you get lost, even walking down to the end of the block, just to clear your head. It’s about being an early reader, asked to recite some passage, and you get to the part you shouldn’t read, and you do, anyway. There are so many threads that two separate maps of our lives, one placed upon the other, would be like crackle glass, and getting from point A to point B would require more than one crossing. Do you wave every time? I think you would. God, I hope.

You ever sit at a stop light at an intersection and think about someone so hard that you look to your right and she’s right there, risen right from the road like Indian Pipes? I live too far away from the world to experience this particular unearthly phenomenon, but I’ve heard of it, and occasionally I think I might know what that’s like, as though I have some sort of reserve, ready to spend it all, 50 meters from the tape. I don’t know if I am sentimental. I don’t know if I am blown over.

I am all crusty interior and heart of gold.