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September 2008, vol 4 no 3
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Charles Hansmann In Step I am finding age in my bones as if this turning to stone were a way to preserve my shape when cells can no longer do it. Or maybe just the gap I will leave as the clay hardens around the place where I decay. Whether I'm to be petrified or fossilized the sky keeps coming to the window and the errant birds keep thudding against this darkness. Who has a better sense of how the light is changing than those who read not by the light but only the light? This light today touches your face and impresses me with this memory. When the mark it has made lifts out who knows toward what passage or glass those wings will fly? I stand here hobbled while the thought goes running by. upturned beetle someone's footprint filled with rain |