day 52

On that particular day, as if no one had been to the desert. The cream melted in the pot. Chicken danced in blood. Fish pores.

(IMAGE BY CHI, 1996)

Pouring.


I stuck to my desk and made myself write. It wasn’t a pretty story. The pencil lead landed and headed into my vein. Sun burned. The pages opened. Scent of memory. Flowery spring. Again, I saw the dead frog squashed flat on the road, hardened and bleached by the sun. Swell again in the rain.