On the rime-covered grass a rustling where the full moon casts shadows under the trees. All we really are is the same conversation spoken over and over. We change a word here and there. Our tone of voice. Put the inflection elsewhere. All we really are is an accumulation of the affinities drawn to the myriad choices we make. We don’t really make choices though. It’s been raining for days. Your finger bleeds a little. As soon as everything is silent a piece of mud breaks off and falls to the wooden floor with a dull thud. Maps are only useful if you’re planning on going back where you’ve already been. Otherwise they just get you farther away from where you really need to be. This one for example. The addition of topographical elements will determine whether the settlers will make it through the winter. Will have to start eating their fingers when the snows are unable to melt. We can’t make up our minds. Capitol City or exile? Let the swelling abate or keep the stiffness from settling in? You won’t see it. That fog, far from obscuring things, offers us a unique perspective. No matter where you stand in the fog you are at the place of greatest clarity. Things achieving a more and more distinct vagueness the farther from you they find themselves to be. Don’t worry. These are just theories and chicanery. Outside it’s freezing. In the shower there’s a centipede. I know you hate it, but I put on your socks.

 

 

Eye-Rhyme 8