The schematics were confusing. From the outset I
sensed it, the arctic again. He served up the rotini
and that was that. It was in a water-stained trunk
of old papers that I first stumbled upon the secret
of meandering equivalencies and the distribution
of want. We were hunting for a grease gun, each
of us, ham-handed, and what did we find? Fifteen
canaries in an unmarked grave. It was like scoring
a scene from a Russian novel to be played entirely
on a bent trombone. Still, the bass parts, fetching.
I had to understand the sky. Its studied phrasings.
Medevac copters and the royal we. She asked us
if we ever found out why the pencils didn’t work,
but we knew it, we were lied to. There never was
no way out. I gathered up the burnt and sugared
remnants from the floor. We didn’t have a throw
rug to ferry off the dogs and none of us could skate
worth a damn, whatever was coming, was coming,
there wasn’t a cloud left here to stop it. I just kept
on counting. I was hungry and too used to the rain.
Jeffrey Little | (doorknobs dream of sleep)
Contents | Mudlark No. 77 (2023)