And maybe somewhere the want flies out of our mouths before it becomes words. Maybe the primordial ooze, maybe a single-celled organism and another and another, builds, reaches out a scaly, clawed hand for– . Maybe that instantaneous moment when atoms bond and chemical reactions combust. Maybe just surprise. Maybe I think I can’t look away because I just don’t want to, splicing the strands of fate to put my name in them. Maybe it isn’t matter. Maybe you were just a spare bit of electricity, sprawled sunlit gold against spring grass; maybe my brain fog snapped its neck on the first thing it saw. Maybe jeans and bracelets and a paper frame. An electrical tower teetering in the wind. Ghosts in the machine. Maybe purple thunderclouds at war, slashed orange sunset. Maybe soul-possessed. Maybe drunken planes spiral out of the sky. Maybe vultures. Maybe I disappear again. Maybe you beat me to it.
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POETRY: Issue 35