| DALLAS, TEXAS
21 JULY 2007
OTHER CURRENT LOCI
Backyard filled with robins in November;
The robins are migrating late, I take it;
An itching round the shoulder blades,
Unseen as yet, but felt as in
patching the world
I wake up in the morning and re-create my roads and houses. (When I sleep the asphalt reconstructs itself into gravel banks, the siding shifts to dark green forests.) I remake my world in seconds.
Outside I see a small hole I forgot to close. A bird is singing but there’s no bird there. I blink my eyes and see the bird I just created, and the world makes sense again. I pull fruit from the trees and eat it and make a rabbit and kill it and make a hat – making, re-making, revising, never getting it all quite right – not exactly right, until
I end the day, falling back into the bed made from a tree I made this morning and cut down this afternoon. I crash out on a mattress made of clouds and Styrofoam made of plastic and air and iron springs welded from ore I pulled out of the mountains I made at daybreak.
I’m exhausted from the constant work of making and unmaking. I stare at the sky above my bed – I forgot to mine the asphalt to make the shingles to cover my house.
So what if there’s a hole in the sky and a hole in the roof? So what if I can see a dark sky filled with bright lights that might be stars or ships or light-drawn moths? I can’t be certain what they are, although I made them. But now it’s late and I can’t make it all fit. I feel more and more like moving to another world – if there was one I could get into.