Large Marbled Sphere of Unknown Origin Ensconced in a Hand-Carved Box

04/19/14

A man is supposed to, so his eyes caught in the folds of her skin.
He felt alive the caution was so dangerous.
This has all been explained, but not to her.
His heavily laden ghost was busy sniffing the potential hidden in the baggage.
Her baggage was sniffing back.
Passion is a muscle. The heart reminds us. It needs beating to tenderize the body of
it, which bruises out and away from the source, broadcasting the delayed recognition of
the welcomed invasion, a balance recovered as the color warms outward.
At this stage of the proceedings, a girlfriend once wore a camouflage garter belt. A
boyfriend wore a confederate army uniform with a copy of Rimbaud in its torn pocket.
Maneuvers.
They certainly didn’t understand their survival.
Shouldn’t it be enough that they’ve discovered they’re still there?
You want to understand, but that’s not what you want to happen.
If you go back to them, they won’t be there anymore. They don’t need to drown.
They just float away. They empty.
Death is relative. The end of the story is always coming after you.
Neither animal predator enough. Neither animal prey.



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.