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The rain does not cool and is a sticky one to the present and the place. Is it a weakness, yours for narcotics? The trees levitate and become mountains. You stand in the water inside a melancholy boulder. Now you're a flying sandwich.
From Small Boat by Lesle Lewis, published by the University of Iowa Press. Copyright © 2002 by Lesle Lewis. Reprinted by permission of the publisher. All rights reserved.
I wanted a horse. I jumped from a plane. I was not comfortable with your illness. I was a detective at the wedding. I recognized the new way it would be with you in rehabilitation. I saw how the sunset colors on the Navesink River got sad with the lone rower. I lived on a lone planet with my befuddlement. I'd lost a person. I didn't know how to hold my lips. I was like the goose bathing in parking lot puddles. Definitely, I am on a train.
Happy for nothing, we could be with no dinner to cook.
Absence is gigantic in our heads and houses.
We’re old and it’s bold to say so standing at the kitchen counter with the flashing red things.
The clock says midnight and we say yes.
When we go out, time always pays.
We spike our heads with copper ions and picnic with the breast explorers.
We’re riding the earth.
Non-motion is impossible.