Love, Delight, and Alarm [excerpt]
Then the treehouse burned. And continued unobliterable as the sea to burn. The photo of it burning hangs on its wall, taken from high up, but not that high. The firemen approach cautiously, minus the four-part regimented solace, that would repeat. If the act of painting is Drawing the boundaries of a fire, can I disappear into the initial combustion? If the act of painting stops time or at least its cornet of fronted tremendous, I could disappear into the Encyclopedia of Animal Life as the cherub's sleepiest wet tusk. I could start with a dexterous periscope and end by feeling time, the largest block of it I can conceive collectively Smell I the flowers, or thee? See I lakes, or eyes?
Copyright © 2012 by Karen Weiser. Used with permission of the author.