The criminal is young and invisible

Monday, January 10, 2011

I turned to the boy with the camera and asked him for his neck
but his neck was very busy and his blue hair was an advertisement
for rejection. So I kept on breathing his air like a desiccant
drawing the lines in, blowing up in a shrinking space. I was
a muscle, hands in a pair of hands. I was lifted into the city.

I patrolled the seaport. There were no boats but the piers were full
and their doors. I felt like a hill at risk of ending, my sidewalks
finely poured. The hill refused my feet. I rolled as though
cornerless, a plant clinging blindly, we take in water and nothing else
but what else is there. The boy with the blue hair holding
his camera up like a hand. My hand over the lens.

Saturday, January 1, 2011