10 The Meadow thought of them as collected eyelashes. i try to blink as often as possible. pretending what i see is a series of photographs. one following the other. maybe there is a lake kept by the gods where a polaroid of every second lives. if i could i spend the rest of my days swimming there in search of an image of the last bird. her wings are what make every shadow in me. i would steal her image for myself. maybe slip it beneath my pillow as i slept. absorb some of that boundlessness. commiserate over our desires to fracture in illumination. a loon calls as i turn on my desk lamp. outside, a flock of yesterdays passes beneath the always. i take a picture of my hands & add it to the inventory.
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