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Writing
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About MeIn the mirror now, I am the waver
of a bird’s wing as it contemplates diving. The pines rise over the house and some nights shower bits of their shaggy heads down on the roof. The thump of things falling apart used to jar me. Isnt it funny how fear grows more tempered as you grow accustomed to sound. At midnight, the moon shines through the window. I think it is a mirror, but I am nowhere in its puddle. I lull over it like some fallen narcissus head only to find I am looking out from underneath. I can’t see from down here. I hear the pines singing. I can only keep sinking / and hope there is another bottom to rise through. Another mirror where I can become, maybe the whole of the bird Granite breaks the ground. Open me and you’ll find it, also, sparkling between the rungs of my ribs. The empty spaces hunger to be filled and there is no criteria for filling. I sweep dead leaves from the emerging granite heads dotting the edges of the path and stand a moment, absorbing the weight of what I know is to come. If decay is certainty why is it laced so with fear. Why does it sit like rock in our pockets. Pulling us down. Pulling us down. The question repeats: how are you feeling. Do you remember those pictures of mountains growing? Rock crushing together to form some greater rise and then standing, folded. Waiting to be ground down minutiae by minute. Each raindrop is a force that can not be escaped. There is only the understanding that someday—this is going to wear me all away. The build of rock settles in the tips of my fingers. This is how everything begins |