Monday, July 20, 2009
Climb in, they say. The cage is exactly the size of your body. The sun sets. The moon says grace. In the twin caves of the nostrils, drawings of buffalo running, ancient people gathered in circles telling circular stories, a record of time scratched into the walls. Yet time passes differently in each nostril. Night lasts longer in the left. In the right, perpetual dawn like a ghost, the fine wheat, the blond armhairs of children, the distant vowels of timber wolves, someone burning a harp. In the cage, all days are the same. I make myself small and run in circles. I invent a printer that prints on water instead of paper. Clouds gather then begin to darken, each raindrop a single letter of my escape plan and necessary for agriculture.
Image from the brilliant work and website of Dominic Wilcox.