Tired, hungry, hot, I climbed the steep slope to town, a sultry, watery place, crawling with insects and birds. In the semidarkness of the mountain, small things loomed large: a donkey urinating on a palm; a salt-and-saliva-stained boy riding on his mother's back; a shy roaming black Adam. I was walking on an edge. The moments fused into one crystalline rock, like ice in a champagne bucket. Time was plunging forward, like dolphins scissoring open water or like me, following Jenny's flippers down to see the coral reef, where the color of sand, sea and sky merged, and it was as if that was all God wanted: not a wife, a house or a position, but a self, like a needle, pushing in a vein.
Henri Cole - 1956-
I saw you unexpectedly on the street today. Though it was midday your eyes were dilated, and you seemed almost electrically charged with thought, with an increased speed of speaking: "I garden, I grill meat, I prowl the bars." But I was having difficulty listening. Your teeth were growing. A muscle spasmed against my diaphragm; I needed a bag of ice. Still, I could see those rooms with perfect clarity: the coat rack and bureau, the dinner plates with congealed meat, the flea market Piranesi, and the long mirrors like camera lenses freezing us as the boat-header gave you his final thrusts, preparatory to the cutting-in.