The New Guy

A parallel gesture, the specimen sits hungry

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Wet chill settling in with parametric grace. This is a morning of vectors. A casual science organically arises from the need to dig some holes.

With a tail more turned than the oscilloscope in my garage and an eye for transposition, a type of replacement kindness powers. In its frequency the lifeline, in the darkness a rider with no head who stood watch under the moon mid-affect late into the night. A parallel gesture, the specimen sits hungry in the yard most mornings, his thoughts a kind of music that loops but does not repeat.

We do not speak much of the old loss. It washes over us in waves. A life itself made exodus. I’ve borrowed many things and called them mine before their terms and conditions came due.

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