I am careless with her bad news.
To hold a hot ladle and drink fully is station one, where we arrive and shortly depart without our shoelaces and our lunch-pails. We are sick to be so frozen in magnetic positions, legs wild and strangely akimbo. My own are feelers - that they walk and shoot purpose towards my knees like wooden bullets.
The first time I saw station two, every root system beneath my feet drowned. To play a violin on Tuesday, to wear a feather behind my ear. To cut my toenails daily, to step left foot left foot right foot left foot left foot right foot. Here the wind caught me in full dance, disrobed, simple, complete.
A third station, some have said, is entirely unecessary. A station pale and born splicing fingernails into film. "Ha-ha!" every single fisherman with grey hair screams by the wharf. "Now we're getting somewhere!"
I have been stations one & two with better intentions gumming on dry forks.
I have been spoons & bowls, and will continue to be until I am full.
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