Okay, this one’s mine. Curved like anticipation. A ripe certainty of tension and
release. Never too far from the extremes, never one without the other, these expectant
celebrations. A self-generating promulgation of celebratory unions. An ambiguous
container filled with brilliant definitions of “container.” A gravesite beneath a tasty blue
plate of anticipated joy. The persistent foreplay of a delicious event which may not
even know it precedes.
That’s what makes for such a magnificent scene from the tower high above the
street vendors. You don’t have to look closely at the suffering to know it’s beautiful.
This sort of thing makes me giddy. Like noticing the shoeshine boy is barefoot.
My heart’s little liquid legs tickled by a delightfully slurpy urge to roam, aflutter and
astumble, nudged from its clockworks.
Listening to my memory of it, I realized it was a peculiar not-quite-yet kind of
beauty which had addressed me, a crepuscular slice of the old tickleslap. You see, the
market had fallen out of my travel-hungry body. The future was arriving too quickly. I
felt like the dog that ate the winning lottery ticket.
Perhaps this is an indication that one could be permitted to leave without
adequately digesting all the surprises. Perhaps one could spirit away the fussy
high-stepping heart-deer along with the unrestrained stroking of carefully placed
skinsocks, assemble something suggestive in leather over-bones, the way certain kinds of
irretrievable departing beauties do.
The dog is listening now. The dog is leaning into the words. The dog doesn’t know
what you’re saying, but the dog knows what you mean. Not just the end of something but
the end of something too beautiful to be the end. And not just the end of something that
beautiful, but the end of the start of something you can’t live without. It nips at your heels
as if you had been running away from the thing that you were chasing, its deliberate
ruminant legs. And it descends from what you thought you were saying and sways from
side to side and seems to speak of an ordinary endurance without reaching for the tongue.

Rich Ives is the author of Tunneling to the Moon: A Psychological Gardener’s Book of Days currently being published in serial @ Silenced Press everyday in 2014 and forthcoming in paperback. Begin from the beginning, catch up, read daily. Just refer to the Burrow Guide.