Thursday, August 05, 2010



Sight. Take something two and make it one.

The sea. Take flesh and blood and make it wooden.

Parrot is dog of the shoulder. It closes its three lids and clings to the shore, its mind a sextant pointed at flight, its wings which were two, wooden and flightless as the ocean itself.

Beneath the surface, a strange glow, eyes in unexpected profusion.

With fewer fingers, even a simple stick is something.

It’s not that the world is round, but that it is large.

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