Thursday, January 13, 2011
Centipede tracks
Centipede tracks in the dust defining the anatomy of the past—like the time you took your siesta under the swing set and dozed off to the faint percussions of far-off conversations in that coffee shop in the rain the way it fell in big drops one per cloud passing over the wires, one at a time, too, from each runnel of the corrugated roofing—you know, those corduroy roads the plantation trucks claimed as their own. Those were the dust storm days with a small confusion at the weekend as Shinto and Christian split the difference in the morning air. Go ahead, say you weren't there. Say the bits fell apart with every swipe of the machete and every crumpled chit they used instead of money, but I'm telling you it all comes down to this place right here, the components whole again, everyone living in each other's head and the excruciating sting of the truth burning off all the hairs of your right arm.
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