Sometimes, when the butter just warms up, you’ll run outside with feathers trailing behind you. Your darkest furrowed look — how impressive you seem. But it bodes well. Amazing arms, something extrudes from fingers — seeds, shooting from the fingertips — and look, you forested the hillside, covered the landscape scar, you forested the landslide that left the scree shifting and falling into perplexity.
I care when you walk.
Some angular distance between self and home — nothing built, nothing squandered — serious faces in waxy marriages, with the up/down up/down. When they merge there are only completed measures of approximation. Take a hunk of air and chew it softly. Neglect the bells, the ringing and the tiny blue lights blinking all over the house, perpetually, unrelenting.
I take the brown stain and wrap it inside the paper as a gift, and I know it spreads. She paused to consider this. Eyed the results, piecing it all together. Madness mind — something quivering, loose.
She would not sacrifice. Would not hold still, either, burning through multiple holes, cigarette smoke circling, becoming sky and bone. Simply running hands in hair, thinking of elsewhere, thinking of anything except the meter running in her solar plexus — but some miracles of evidence you can’t ignore, when you finally come home and find the stain that didn’t belong to you, your child, your man and now you know what it was you were always missing and could never find, ever, anywhere.
That Renoir touch — how the hillside bloomed, blushing — scars hidden, buried in color, in shape, in active natural forces — so winsome her locks, wisping against her eyes, the eyes of the young — her eyes holding nothing but a hillside in bloom. What a continuum! He shrieked. It was the echo he liked. The ricochet of moisture.
What you perceive moves like a moth, then drops to the ground for a meal or a baby, and you look away.