of splintered railing split by a tree, itself lopped by an axe, I
cross the bridge walking as fast as my heart pumps, climbing
the first hill all theism is idolatry, since expression signifies
it, thereby freezing it; except if, somehow, its discourse refutes
itself and so the creek drops into its frosty bed. For the first time
in years the path is covered with snow, footprints everywhere, some
of them human, I trip on a hidden stone. There's always slippage,
I think, as a runner passes, intent on his every step.
fall, nothing broken inside.
Notebook's wet, however,
ballpoint pen's pushed
|Sasquatch smiles, and throws a snow ball at
nothing at all.
It's like the old days, when the river could
hold my weight.