What do you do when description falls flat; when the parched volcano sleeps. When lost letters drop dull wood in a brushfire of spelling accidents. What do you do when your hand thickens, a grandmother's heavy iron pot stirring numb starch to a slow, slow, stop. When you are feeding no one.
When apathy trickles, a wound of atrophy and a colorless hour skitters over an old moon face, a lodged rock, there by God and permanence. Shadows wander away beneath cloudy capes shuddering - things are partially as they appear and, not. It tricks me to think I can see through it.
It is this crescent belief that cannot be seen that chases me down like figments, through windless trees, to write on and on and wait.
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