It is Saturday, I stumble into it, half blind. The piped-in voices, the dream conspiracy, the barking dog. Last night the moon, a dented rusting hubcap. Plunging home in the dark, the winding and serene. Giving myself over to the river of it, the fall. We have been at odds here, a grinding. Pebbles falling through the spaces in my fingers made by making my hand big enough to hold them. I cannot hold them. The dog at my knee wanting love makes a small growl in her throat.
Telling: Streams & Logs