4.13.2005

Fulfillment


Erstwhile endeavor. Small birds flap their wings five times in quick succession, then coast like a wave in the air. The accelerated path a bullet makes when fired from its gun: nothing feels as good. It is said that a bullet fired and a bullet dropped simultaneously will land simultaneously: one in a long, swooping arc of speed; the other like the body of a man slipping from a dark bridge. Rock salt enters pheasants at all sorts of angles as they lift off from the brush. That satisfaction: either dying or flying. It can’t be measured. Like so many things I neglect to mention or love in my tiny life, this can’t be measured.

2 comments:

  1. Charles: love it. a prose poem *extraordinaire*.

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  2. mmmmmmmmm

    see me licking my lips

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