Lost Time for RoseTimothy Bradford
Let shiny black go with her belly marked red in a field of broken grave stones. Forgot to say, “I let you go; tell your family—Theridiidae— not to bite my family—XX, XY, XY— ridge east of the North Canadian.” Out of the glass jar, her legs swarmed like cilia in the lungs to try on a mantle of fresh air. I let her go, untamed. Some things beyond domesticity. Like REM sleep. Animals move through. Desecrated 8 mm rewound and played again, with stutters and gaps: a niece humming jazz standards and I ride the mare, dogs sicced on us by ________?, and lizards witness with hidden eyes. All strangely Celluloid, flat on the screen of the mind rigged high above the slumbering body. My trainer’s gone. I’m a lonely animal on this swarming planet, with a den of children, with visitors, but without a trainer, the heart cannot see right. Time to train me myself for the difficult recognition of this family—this consciousness— of light. Or time to run an advert: Trainer wanted, third planet from the sun.
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