In the Marvelous De-Centralized Way of Swans
There are people whod like to take my place, to steal it as though it were a camera and Id left it on a bench. I believe this even as evidence to the contrary keeps surfacing. The way the girls hair hangs more to one side than another. The way she relishes her own name, rolls it around on her tongue, like a piece of licorice. She breaks her fall with both hands, just as they tell you not to in gym class. And sure enough, the novels begin to pile up at her doorstep. Soon, she cant find her way out again and must settle for Sunday afternoons sitting quietly, listening to the furnace. And the clocks chiming in the next house. The sound of them far away. And exciting, like jet planes. In fact, she cant imagine why she hadnt stumbled on them before. When she wandered the neighborhoods. Hoping someone would spot her unusual character. That thing that made her almost less than human. Though she wouldnt have phrased it precisely this way. Instead, she might have dabbled in Portuguese. Or fashioned a club to punish any object that was not attached to her body.