Steps I’m saying that winter is beating summer into a bloody pulp. I know I’m missing a couple of steps but bear with me: immediacy. I’m building a house for us, just us, to occupy I know, I know, no steps, the skull-crushing fall, bear with me: whimsy I asked if you were miserable, and you uncharacteristically said yes. That wasn’t right. You said I have no business saying or building, because I don’t know anything. Screw you. I’ll have you know that my problem’s not that I don’t know — it’s that I do know, but I just haven’t got it in me to stop the oncoming traffic, the stampeding current. I am all variables of this equation: the clumsy foot, the flimsy stairs, the misjudged placement, the scream, the mechanism of gravity, the body bleeding out in the debris of rotting scaffolding. That’s your cue — robin in the woods, scab on the wound. It’s good, smacks of something new, endorses distance — this bitter, meticulous forgetting.
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