The Lines of a Letter

Lines.  There’s a wall, and strings hanging from the sky. This isn’t a dream nor is it a place I want to live but I’m reaching for height where there’s only the weight of all this, bearing down, bearing down softly into you.

(In a gypsy moth invasion, the trees fight with what they have which is bad taste. I will taste bad until you spit. If this makes sense, please write me a letter about it.)

I remember running across a field, every fiber jumping for the next inch, sweaty forehead cooled by my windmaking legs. It was unusual. The way I stopped, right there, as though something called me its puppet and dropped me. So I sat and watched the greenness of that grass and thought of the snows that filled the field last winter.

I learned how to be quiet from my dad. How to watch the world pass, how to miss the signs, how to feel the boot on my chest without wincing. He gathers himself daily but it’s nothing more than picking up newspapers. He taught me about walking without direction. He taught me to run down a dog if it meant staying on the right side of the yellow line, but of course I never did that. I don’t know how to tell you what this is all about right now.

How to fly seven kites in a room with walls?

I carry your blood, and I know this danger. I will remove it. I will transfuse those parts of you that keep me from bleeding. I can know pain and I will live. I can cause pain and that’s what happens sometimes. That’s what happens when you walk backwards into a crowded theater yelling erif. That’s what happens when the edges are indefinite and they change like a flounder’s wavy sides. I have finished waiting. The bus won’t come. I will strap on a knapsack and walk. And you will be there with me, won’t you?

Oh – so – what about writing a letter? I probably owe you a letter but you – where are you now? I can’t write you a letter, jammed as I am with barges at the mouth of the river.

Write something.

In the skin that is this game, the running doesn’t stop and the men sweat. You will like me. It can be here, or behind that wall, but you will like me.

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About David

Prone to musing and to being prone. Father to two, writer, engineer.
This entry was posted in prose, prose poem. Bookmark the permalink.

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