Honey, I just couldn’t do it. I wanted to put the dog out of his indifference. But I
haven’t been myself. Not even that.
Just stay out of that country. That’s what I tell myself.
Someone had giggled at the source of the spring and it stopped flowing. Someone
tight and wound. Someone like I was without myself. Someone tangent. Someone like
Truth is, I couldn’t have been here without you. I couldn’t see anything in myself
very clearly, but you could, and they weren’t all pretty people. You didn’t have any
illusions, did you? Plenty of mistakes, but no illusions. That kind of waiting is never as
personal as it seems.
And I certainly noticed it noticing you, even though I’ve been slower of late. My
way wound tight and scalded with a limping blue light. I discovered it’s not hard to find
the right answer, but it’s always attached to the wrong problem. My thoughts were
floating behind a beautiful mystery like some neighbor’s annoying trash barrels stinking
in the majestic ancient fog.
Neither do people like to believe in ideas that have not been believed in for a long
time. People do not like to spill out when they’re not used to it. We were like them once
and now we’re not.
We waited for it to end, but it didn’t stop arriving. As we approached the
unrepentant sky, I noticed a couple of untethered tenements that looked like they might
have been leased to wallet-sized Victorians, strangely tentless, catarpillar-like and leafy.
One by the puffy white garden and one by the ethereal blue pond.
I tried to jump in, but I couldn’t understand the things they weren’t doing.

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.