Mahfouz urges us not to attend the past but rather the very presence of healing. Trees fall hard in the forest, we hear them from a distance, and walk quicker. There is no "away."
Beads of sweat. Interior fractures of quartz catching the sun. Beneath the rotting apple tree, evidence of woodchucks.
All the links constituting sexuality are established early, mostly before we become sexual, and so sex is a kind of discovery of what we are that is beyond our control. Broken shoelaces, broken beer bottles, broken hearts of broken cobblers, broken boys who both fear and long for what women want.
The horizon is neither here nor there, yet we are allowed to talk about it: why. Forsythia bushes in early May, their blossoms a kind of soft foam at a distance, intimating what.
Speech declines what is offered by way of clarification. Traffic, everybody in motion, always the sense that getting away is possible, desirable, and yet.
Grit in the knuckles on my thumb.
Effort persists, effortlessly. At night he lies awake in the hayloft, searching the sky through dark windows, wishing there was another way. Who is happy, who is unhappy, who is stuck seeing who is happy and who is not.
Clocks. Feral cats.
Orchestral midnight, early May, dreams of you becoming old news in me always.