The strangers around me, throwing their hands about. They stand in circles, losing shape. And while they throw away time, their hands all about in the air, I bend, and bend, and bend, until I am circle.
There was a mystery about it. Horribly painful as often as not. And in absence, in the most unlikely places, it would open. As if a flower where a flower shouldn’t be by nature. And in its stem a sweet honey. And in its stem a sour vacancy.
Time splits its husk. Undresses. Stands still. I stand with it, still. There is a sound we both hear. Or rather, a sound we both feel. Like the rustling of dry corn in a stubbled field. We must be cautious, before we are taken, with it and its wind, and carried off, consumed, becoming it.