--- T O M D E V A N E Y
He liked a good tune if it lasted. Upon a dirty bone colored rug, soothingly threadbare, his feet— alert for problems. For the billionth time every crack, every splinter, every commonplace thing pushed like spiders across the stars, a slow exhalation, unable to distinguish between the clear calm of love and an event that can happen. Like the lonely lakes of the Triassic Age, or forward into one of the nearer ages, falling faintly through the universe among remarks about horses and forecasts, from glass to glass and left to left—all in the foot.
© crossconnect, inc 1995-2004
published in association with the |
university of pennsylvania's kelly writers house |