23 Nov 2012
Unbuttoning my shirt, only to find a pack of atoms running off-leash. This flint, this spark wilds the glen without abandon, yet it's you who wears the moss in this house. Can it be that we derive pleasure from a mutual incision, or that to tunnel from one organ to another requires just this little energy? Propulsion into developmental decay, that yellow leaf called recovery. I wish this upon no one: cognate exile with one's shadow in tow. What was once a steeple is now a sparrow resting on a cusp, an adverb from Latin, 'born' with a jammed window in the heel. Maybe I can be your curtain, but I'd rather soak your beans, my dear, and launch into the next incarnation as your ghost. Only one way to find out...
(Thanks to MindTheStep for the nomination. GJC)