fresh prints

There used to be children playing in that window and now there are adults lighting candles and drinking wine. This has to mean something to me. Some part of the brain triggers and pitches into the conversation nothing helpful: “maybe they are the same kids grown up and the length of your depression has lasted 17 years rather than 17 months.” The other voice sips his lukewarm white IPA with an air of derision. Anyway- the window, my kitchen window, is scraped occasionally by a dead rose bush, the sound of a nail on a chalkboard, the screech of something other than a screech owl who soar, and swoop, but those roses, maybe killed by floor space taken up by hyacinths and weeds, scratch at the window like a quarter on a losing lottery ticket. just double checking, double checking. double. and the window across the night-snail path, the slime trails and the found shells and the confidence of their slow glide even at the impending doom of an impatient human with keys jangling at their hip or in their non-cell-phone hand or from their nipples or earlobes, the real key placement in a keyless sound, and the snails there all on the ground at an inescapable pace, the giant treaded shoes of faux joggers impending, the flip flops of the hip hop diva mistress distraught, the limits of the human imagination thrown into a little spiral shell and given a phallic glider to convey. The slime trail, the feelers with the eyes at the ends. The texture. Then some weeds. The other window, remember. I from mine, from never mine, really, from hardly ever mine, from forcibly also hers, but never mine, mine, mine. A decision made by a mother who needed assurance. A decision of passivity of my own brand. The kind of passivity that includes self awareness and future self loathing. Anyway, the snails. Ha. The window. Now maybe the new adults, sitting cross legged, are playing with a ouiji board. I am not watching them. These are fragmented images from when I catch a glimpse because I do not wish to look at them without knowing them or without them knowing I am looking at them. I just don’t like closing my blinds because I get claustrophobic and the others get paranoid for letting the light in, for the symmetry of eyes inbound and outbound, and suddenly zoom! in comes a sleek bicycle with its rider attached riding. Swoop of the night out there on the hilly gravelly shed-destroyed lilac filtered in only certain gardens. Crazy world of deaf co-workers and a stupid inability to communicate with them and a desire to leave and move and move on and live in many different places and everyone is in a temporary situation because if opportunities arise elsewhere they are acclimated to the immediate acceptance of those new inquiries on life on excess on location and the irrelevance of location and of the remaining places “watch your step” hiking because there might be chairs in the shape of graves or the graves in the shape of chairs or the parachutes in the shape of sand-bagged world war two bombs though a failed scare tactic except for this one time and in oregon and a lost story because history covers its ass like a trail in the snow covered by fresh snow and who wants to look at anything but fresh prints?


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