Prose

The ball will not bounce, steel canvas, floor markings to measure its rubber tracks. Stand in the idyll of the island. Step onto its boulevard, dance in its piazza. Freedom within sides is a retrogression, id within id, solvent, ethereal, edge of space. “Draw me into the outside to walk an inner feeling.” Let the sky infiltrate the bluing front wall. Let the left quarter close in, shuttering the sun. Herringbone and houndstooth. “Not before the double yellow dots meet,” Jean Metzinger says, pulling in the thermospheric layers like worsted fabric. No noise or draught, tiny carvings scratched onto the astragal.


* This first appeared in the journal "Shinshi".