Ideal: to drive the lane and look for dishes, to see the open man, give him his bucket. The one-on-one for which we are now counseled blueprints a perfect symmetry that’s hard to hold. Like my friend who dreams of his ex and wakes to find a moonlit lawn of deer. In our nightly houses the dolls insist that we are faithful to ourselves. When I wake up in a bad mood, I wonder why my point ignores my shooting guard. This realm of giving, this realm of reciprocity: I need a Mr. Make-It-Happen, a deus ex machina, an all-star down among us who deigns to fix our gears. Until then, these uptake-inhibitors are splendid, as when I find myself a deer on some strange lawn, my garden party head a promiscuity of maps with toll-free grassy lanes and cul de sacs.
Copyright © 2007 by Michael Morse. First published in A Public Space. Appears with permission of the author.