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29
Tell me when I’ll be ready. The maritime metaphor is
loaded to the brim, the plumb is submerged, the masts
creak impatiently and the deck is strewn with supplies and
valuables and animal specimens of all kinds. Swaying
beneath the deck are chests overflowing with symbols,
which percolate from riddle to riddle. At least tell me in
some incomprehensible language, is there any chance of
survival in the face of wayward verbs, decomposing nouns,
prepositions as porous as the night?
It always dawns late in January. In the distance, highway
noise and an unusually cheerful warbling. The echo of
footsteps crossing the Mathematical Bridge. I’ve asked
enough in my sleep and am no longer hungry. It’s light
enough for me to hear the grass growing from my skin and
to feel the roots of the wild thorn across my forehead. I
forget. My only ally is a lie and my last betrayer is dust.