How is it I'm becoming particle solid tool with a few odd uses even as I'm honed to nothing more than gesture—wave or stride, shrug, stutter? Resolute contradiction, I'm worn so smooth by now I should be able to explain everything. So what is it that escapes me, that on good days, lifted and filled me? Because that's what I would have called light.
From Rooms and Their Airs by Jody Gladding. Copyright © 2009 by Jody Gladding. Used by permission of Milkweed Editions. All rights reserved.