A thought on the lip of little sand island, an easy messenger who forgot where to go. I came to laugh in a dirty garden, a thwarted pauselessness considering pearls. I was fluent in salamander. Everything wrote itself onto skin with a tangled blowing. Identity washed its trousers just off-shore. An opal eye looking down on an errant package. A sky wrung of tint. What is the meaning of this minor error? The reflecting pool no one could read. A beach fire snagged me with its bright emergent eye. I was buttoned to Africa. My colony sought revolt in every yard. The present was a relic of a past I was older than. Taking its language, I became an abridgment of whatever I contained, a social imperative of silky fears. I wanted air. I wanted the balloon. Darkness flaked down like bottle glass invented by a poor oily sea. A house made of soup. The others formed an invisible order felt in every part. The male of the species was louder than the female. Females cowered, they made the mush, a sound of off-stage sweeping. Boys played a game of torture and sleepy forgiveness while girls read their books on the rocks, containers of a solar plot. Little bird, fox on a string. A caravan of foreign number, staging death. So? A smudge against the smallest dress, buried creature. Of sly erasures in the storied night, long e cricketing awake, asleep.

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