You know what I mean, right? Though perhaps yours looks a bit
different? Once I dropped something from very high above the
lake. Weeks before I’d asked myself, what thing would fall into the
centre there and turn the rips of its falling into one unabashed
wave? Long, unbroken, immaculate even, at the tall of disturbance,
touching all shores at once.
Historically, many mouths, as many as can fit along the water’s
edge, wait for the pressure of that wave, salt-less to salt-less lips,
winded windpipes, many mouths gargling instruments with
breath inside, something that’s been practiced there before, but
definitively fresh; a thud of gum, impromptu flavour, air’s
spearmint, just as softness plummets to the core of the stomach,
accidentally setting off an abdominal heart-beat.
So it came to me, the form of the lake’s object; it must be able to
latch and unlatch, knowing the kiss for what it is, it’s coming
and going peer-pressure. To know it, is to know the shiver-touch
murmur nearer than blood.
This dual-patience has befallen and so sand blushes, water
wishes me more than wet. I’ve seen the body curl, it did so all
over the bay. I couldn’t help it, and still it won’t tell me how it
came to be there in that way.
All I know is that its inarticulacy is centred, and when I shove it
over, as in a test of strength, it tingles and sucks and risks the
occasion all over again.