It was a desire to jump narratives—
to find himself suddenly
encircled by different lights
in the distant hills. To find
the hum of the engine
conveying him forward
had altered its tone. The self
had to be asserted
against that which seemed
merely given: the body’s
to step outside it, outside
what was visible
in the mirror in the room.
He found himself threaded
through the mouth
by his only narrative,
the body that held it
propelling him forward
through the dark, the light
of that narrative
reaching out to strike
the ground before him
in his only voice.
There is no fixed place and by that I mean
take a look at things that are. Split by the
turn of year, its newness and all it brings,
which of its possibilities can we trust?
Elsa is involved in a clandestine
love affair which, let’s be honest, should be
all love affairs until they’re over. She finds
herself dreaming of children and many
other delicacies. Sugared eggs. A
lost palace. But night brings a great expanse
and it’s much too quiet in these hallways.
On her back, Elsa holds her breath, her hands
beneath her, resisting, resisting. That
temptation can be such a dirty rat.