I

What would Will do? Where my body casts a shadow, there are tadpoles. Glisten-ing amid-swim. In a paint bucket. Cautioning my need to focus on any one. And see them all whirling in vortexes. Season of Locusts, (I remember) it was cicadas I heard. Not in a voice or a word. But the songs of their tymbals, reaching on out just to vibrate—to make a sound.

Oh and my tiny traumas of blisters. my skin a sun cake. my feet some hot coals on pool cement. Too stupid and little to understand pain.

Oh and my honors: to be humbled by the sweat-bee; mumbled by a stranger’s mouth and. Spat back out. Like a Russian bomb spit whistle. Like an exotic overly animal bird. Like a brick across the endless trenches of cement between brick and brick. Like a ration of water-for-flowers.

Oh and my offs and my onwards. Half-asleep still, talking from the window of a dream with. My eyes slack and open. So in every center, … frozen water freezes water clinging. So at the periphery. It’s good to look if just to see a. Line of words when it’s you or it’s me. I always got my best work from the edges of my life, at least.

:^)