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March 31, 2015
I write the prize that goes behind the glassy swallowing beacons of imaginary flight. Whatever you write can be picked up, wrestled to the ground and found to have meaning. I am moving. I am water. I am Mother Earth. I am her liquid lover staging behind the door with naked thighs, naked feet. I will stay there until the maids are gone. Those clouds are lined up between my feet. I can trace the horizon with the tips of my toes. I can outline hotels on the beach, tracing their rooflines. Oh look! I can blot out the sun!