June 2011
5 posts
My hands and skin wanted the snapshot.
He stepped back from the irregular triangle painted on the beige wall. Silent like an eye patch. Concealing: I (hyroglyphic eye/see) the world now. 21 years of a single held breath hanging from his hands like a paint roller like a javelin. Upon my return his footprints were betrayed by the spines of weeds.
The wall solid and dry in its reverie.
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