In perfectly clear water I laid down about as still as I could, as though it were a game to keep this little sea asleep while the giant was thinking, and I saw your face in two thirds profile and your hair all like spun girl straw and not a thing harder.
Beneath this sheaf, and taking up the picture, were eyes so wide and soft they looked pulled from some mask painting where it’s only the eyes you can see, faintly amused. By now I was sailing almost, as though a ship of a body upon the sandbar, but even now beginning its move. My heart like a motor, like some buried down generator, began stumbling on as those men in their dirty undershirts shoveled in the coals of memory.
What work they do those men. Endlessly breaking up furniture when their anthracite grows short, pushing in the slightest combustible pieces and never thinking of a future without fuel. They are massive, invisible, and have sinews made strong by the pathways of true feeling. They will never stop.
Because of them, motionless, wet, yet traveling fast now, my five layered fingers trace down your back again and again, while my tongue moves across the line between your upper gum and teeth which do nothing but wait patiently.
What a thing it is to have details no longer just imagined, and yet still have so much left for the imagination to consider within its altogether separate housing, built here so cleverly beside these pistons of memory.
The water grows cold. I do not.