III
In vivo. It was only yesterday I began to see. My scenery was alight with bubbles, blood everywhere. In a moment of panic, I realized I hadn’t thought about anything in seven months. Seven months! Two hundred and eleven days poised like yeast in hardened amber, inching like a Rottweiler towards its fearful reflection. Seven months in a great speckled confusion: puttering and humming in that light that sees dark in the way of the blind.
II
A delinquent spark, a locative urge to urge persists. Cosmic inevitability: the fate of conjoined leaves, the phases of the moon, fission. The ontological chain reaction of reduction leads to a hole in a starry field: a paternal answering machine of confession—dryly received, forgiven. Baseless suggestions every moment fulfilled (breathe!) and the tendrils of the mind, now dancing, dance and dance with the faith of two ears at a ball with two bands.
I
People talk to me at the bus stop and I realize, as a dead leaf blows by, tapering into a seed, no one is there.
In vivo. It was only yesterday I began to see. My scenery was alight with bubbles, blood everywhere. In a moment of panic, I realized I hadn’t thought about anything in seven months. Seven months! Two hundred and eleven days poised like yeast in hardened amber, inching like a Rottweiler towards its fearful reflection. Seven months in a great speckled confusion: puttering and humming in that light that sees dark in the way of the blind.
II
A delinquent spark, a locative urge to urge persists. Cosmic inevitability: the fate of conjoined leaves, the phases of the moon, fission. The ontological chain reaction of reduction leads to a hole in a starry field: a paternal answering machine of confession—dryly received, forgiven. Baseless suggestions every moment fulfilled (breathe!) and the tendrils of the mind, now dancing, dance and dance with the faith of two ears at a ball with two bands.
I
People talk to me at the bus stop and I realize, as a dead leaf blows by, tapering into a seed, no one is there.
2 comments:
I like the edit. The language is better when it is compartmentalized a bit because of its density. The ending is haunting and reiterates the lack in not thinking "about anything in seven months".
It's interesting that you count down. It reads differently when you read it top to bottom than when you read it in numerical order. I think both ways might be necessary, though. The effect is jarring either way.
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