Saturday, June 21, 2008

Yearbook (6.3)

He did not even shave daily, but it was a downy young beard he had and a shining, sharkish, rubbery and resilient respectability that could have cartilage, no bones, and swim frictionless amid whatever. (Crum speculates that to the acute hearing of a dolphin, a snowfall on the surface of the water might sound like “a huge damn thunderstorm.”) The brittle opening chords, the one rude elbow of an unforeseen entirety, the law of these woods. I am a pirate, I have a hook, the gravel is shark-infested waters. Glowing and remote, a moat of darkened heads between. As paragraphs I try to light saying contrail stirring air ribbons for the noon passage now, at solstice, out of summer’s rise. Could inch along like talking to himself in American, out here and talking himself west with another “and then,” another great problem with the wind coming up screwing with him and the plan, him and me, him and the shore, old gray cedar shakes here and there in the sand.

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