Digging toward a Lenten extreme I was pushed by the seed. Noon overturned in its order. Instinctively pure, every time, was the hand stopped logically between the snares of that age and my mother's pain I wasn't there, I didn't choose. The intercom issues mental color where the man is naked. That drop seen in three shares became the only terrified substance, a centuries-old ardor... every pine tree...every pine...stop, you are amid yourself. Wheels withdrawing slowly from the ice, a door's humility. Used by permission of Story Line Press. |