A kid said you could chew road tar if you got it before it cooled, black globule with a just-forming skin. He said it was better than cigarettes. He said he had a taste for it. On the same road, a squirrel was doing the Watusi to free itself from its crushed hindquarters. A man on a bicycle stomped on its head, then wiped his shoe on the grass. It was autumn, the adult word for fall. In school we saw a film called Reproduction. The little snake-father poked his head into the slippery future, and a girl with a burned tongue was conceived.
Chase Twichell - 1950-
To the Reader: Polaroids
Who are you, austere little cloud drawn to this page, this sky in the dream I'm having of meeting you here? There should be a word that means "tiny sky." Probably there is, in Japanese. A verbal Polaroid of a Polaroid. But you're the sky, not a cloud. I'm the cloud. I gather and dissipate, but you are always here. Leave a message for me if you can. Break a twig on the lilac, or toss a few dried petals on the hood of my car. May neither of us forsake the other. The cloud persists in the darkness, but the darkness does not persist.