look there

There’s some place worth going to and I want to take you there.
It’s not a long journey, but it may take a while. Whistle stops and
carrot tops – you could say it’s like a train ride, but it’s more of a
train being ridden by its windows looking through its passengers
making mime at the way the reflections of panes of glass in their
faces trick a light distortion into their heavy transparency and
slickness. The boy’s left cheek where the sunlight falls, seen from
the outside of the moving train looks just like a wildflower. But this
is not a train. It is merely like a train. It is going somewhere all the
same. I could tip the world backward two degrees and you would
see it, but there, there it goes, did you catch that?

the ribbon, the taffeta, the wanderlust, the rainbow lollipop the size
of a grizzly’s hand being eaten by a girl. she pauses in the same shaft
of light that exposes the boy’s floressence, and lifts her blouse to expose
a scar at her waist that itches, head distractedly straining left and
down to get a good look at it in the blade of a solar glare that gashes
it open again for her to see. what is inside of me in this spot, she
wonders, and why was it opened to the world and now closed?
should anyone wonder where the light falls now it is dark. the glass
can never shut its eyes but the people are asleep, all but the boy who
feels distracted by the lumpy clottedness of the volumes and volumes
of night moving past outside and who imagines becoming friends with
the girl but he is too shy. she sleeps in her mother’s lap, too spent to
trifle with the effect of her gyrations on the thoughts of other children,
a dynamo is she. unspun. lollipop half-eaten, lightly clinging to a vinyl
arm rest, about to fall.

are we there yet? not yet. i have taken you barely past the beginning. you
will linger where i leave you walking. i will wander where you see me
disappear. but follow me anyway. there is goodness here.

in the angle of the twist of the cord of a jumprope there is goodness.

in the afternoon dust dance when the curtains are drawn there is goodness.

in the grace of survival and the heave of unwilling witness there is goodness.

because the truth becomes you when you wear it lightly.

because the shadows crawl like ants upon a chunk of meat and call it goodness.

they crawl upon our night bodies like the light crawls upon our day bodies

and the good things we delight in are consumed by their scampering little feet

leaving all the aftertaste and none of the residue.

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