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“You’ve tried the cowboys now try the Indians “
Why begin unless you intend to see things to the end? And do not rely on the words you overheard in a dream, not knowing what they mean, how they sound, those half-shadowed chess pieces maneuvering in and out of thought, unthought. Language goes hard as time at the first understanding. Everything goes inside it, which is an unopened box . . . vague outline of a blue box against a black background.
Then your voice’s children as they escape to the street, as they wade into the crowd . . . the wind sucks them through a bone. A plume of exhalation withers on the zero air. We know only one thing, as a novel knows one story, like a closed book reading its own discrete emotions pressed to paper word by word, comma by comma.
It is not only duration allows our mouths approaching by halves to sometimes kiss. A word is startled by the eye, and something is unknown, if still discrete, no longer.
