it was fuzzy.
i think the pot boiled over; it was
the potatoes,,
now indeterminate from the water:
starchy foam slowly
blackening.

the layers revealed
a sea, a beacon;
a clear retelling, but

this person can not remember.

it was scheduled, somehow:
a bell rang
your feet moved just fast enough to miss
a train.

turn your palms against the wind.
it will push two fingers into your mouth,
lean in,
and suck the words out.

and this part is to you,
alone on the platform:
you, the conductor, the catalyst,
the storyteller.

02/18/2009

Posted on 02/18/2009
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