The night shares in the droning hem and haw of our bewildered locomotive.
It is both shadow and eggshell.
Little breaths and a stern coughing fit populate the air.
There is no wilderness to press our palms into.
There is no sound to gravitate and move us.
Instead we are displaced and set upon a table, and we lie next to the silverware while these
strange fingers torture the tablecloth.
I woke up yesterday and searched through my cabinets for the trinkets and
the minutia which have replaced the initial catalyst. I am now propelled forward solely by this box of chalk which I had stolen when I was nine years old.
The motion itself is inexplicable, and the faces of my friends as they raid the eyelashes of their individualized mind's eye only speeds my confusion.
There are moments when I shuffle forward and can no longer tell whether the
initial push had done me in,
or perhaps it was merely the lapsing pull of the breeze. Either way,
the radius is nice and taut,
the boiling water suits me fine, tonight is just a freckle,
and tomorrow I will look for it again.