You describe to me the shadow we cast on the moon as a
perfect
line, though we are round and therefore the night
bends around
us. Sound refracts too, I say; the insects here in our
backlot
garden of cars are digital, and therefore fluid (some
seconds
they are winged, and fly in and out of our mouths as
the heat
rains down; in others they can only trundle, pushing
ahead the
dusty dung that lights us as if a chariot reached
around inside
our backdoors and got our guns, shot the timidness
through with
facet packets). You describe to me this illusion that
is light
and sound, lateral ends of the same wave flying in and
out of our
mouths, as the heat beads down our skin and trickles
to the
carpet, which is hushed and in awe of us (we've strung
a quiet
thread around both our wrists to hold us together, and
the whole
time I'm afraid of my fat shadow, that it will thicken
and eat
both of us as we sit here gazing at the moon) and can
only sit
quietly while you weave your hands through all the
known models
of being here, quietly, hunched around each other as
if in
hunching we can guess at the summation of what's
mustered between
us; and my fear, you say, here it is: a straight line
of shadow
looming from a perfectly round node.

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http://www.lewislacook.com/




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