|
{direction in light ink} kat sanchez Would he have turned back in the direction of wet paths, and the untouched portions. What he takes from his pocket and writes exhausts him. He lets the scraps go for a while. They show up where I go around the house. In the back there are trees, paper mills for him. I find it all on the inside of a word and under the bathroom sink, in my pocket folded without delicacy. What he would go back for is what distracts him in the wet tan of home. I go up to a branch and touch a pocket of skinned bark. It is him, his back, resting an elbow for a long time and his whole body staring up at him, what is in his hands now. I take him inside, make him out of what is wet – wet trees, wet grass and muscle. When he goes, he wants what is back where it rains – a source, a pocket. He can see the water, the pocket of fog. What he takes is beside him, then he has given it all back. He cannot decide what trees will do best, which will go dry first. The sun bares and evaporates the pieces still in the house and out in the yard. A bare pocket, a trail of dirt and the taste of water goes with me and is part of what has him. Now, he doesn’t know what direction he is in; what makes a way back. He would turn back, take parks apart and palm what comes up in his pocket. What he has made already left him where he would go. |
