Sunday 31 December 2000
Bruises (cont)



flakes; tiny. heard no weather reports, no suspicion of blizzards, yet, walking out into the steet there are specks against the orange; whirling, infinite measures of frozenness. i want a flake on my tongue. it's lucky. lucky, lucky, lucky. i select; focus, follow it with my gaze: run towards it, tongue out like a red setter, knees bent, lower, lower, lower, closer, closer, closer-- thump! a bollard in the ribs. winded, heaving, crying, laughing. his hug makes it worse. a flake on my tongue? i should be so lucky.

maybe next year?




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