Water as solidTony Mancus
You sing the song of apoplexy. The disturbed doorknob-rattle of your lungs says ‘Do not.’ All that can be heard, living the interior life. People in their quiet living rooms think the television is training them to be still, but outside trains carry circuses around the country with all their tents and whistles. Little plastic dolls bob their heads inside of cars and buildings rock in rhythmic assent to sleep. Another weekend full of briars and no berries. The same snowflake falls and falls from the sky like it wants a parachute and never to be repeated. This is like your voice, that it can come off your tongue and can’t come off anywhere else. Your head cocks back and small pieces of very cold water lose themselves in the cloud of your breath. They touch your skin and collect in mounds all over the place. In the road, a boat grows less and less moveable.
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