The penultimate day and I am reduced to fragmentary wanderings. Still, every fragment has potential, no? The first line is from Carol Snow, who I'm encountering for the first time in the wonderful "Lyric Postmodernisms."
Shadow (fragment)
Saw (into) and entered the wide corridor. I’m in the habit of shadows, lean toward the shift of them, their points of attachment. A different sort of anatomy. Surely hands reaching into the shadow body could manipulate it, could draw out the obstruction, make it dissipate with light. This seems like common knowledge, like applying pressure to stanch the blood or licking clean a wound. Though the lack of vivid color and taste makes for confusion. The shadow does not thicken in folds like a length of tulle, nor blue under staining to show what’s been compromised. So one walks the corridors, feeling for unexpected drafts or heat, or what falls into spaces left by doors flung open. The slant, the slam of things. Memory of a boy who says: Pull down your pants. Shadow on the floor replacing what came next.
Photo is by Mrs Logic, via Flickr.
