The cumbersome, near-blind wakings of a giant; a backward traipsing ostrich, here and there a long-necked look; numbness on the child's tongue for licking a snail; her self-bludgeoned womb for womanhood long gone month after month; birdsongs heard through the snow, the cutting off of their clear shrillness; knowing full well how to talk around not knowing if she's a special agent, finding out she is and realizing you'd taken it a bit too far; and in collection likenesses.
Soon it will be turned on and looking back will be an insight annoying and trivial.
Conor Robin Madigan