Single file, like in the native's way to hide numbers and mourn in a slow peace. The leftover and forward once again make sign to a favorite son. They pause and worship a clay idol, as much contrite as devoted. Forgive me friend their eyes say, "I was not there". Or, forget me friend, "There was more than I could handle". The idol responds to the deep wishes of their heart, projecting back upon the somber all that they desire. They will carry now a piece, each a piece of the pain and nurture a wound in proportion to what their projection's demand.
That I may remember the man and the moment
during sunny-side soon-eves, we stood thoughtful, wondering: are there waders in the offing? with blasted hollow tethers beneath us sounding depths. and rickety planks, the boundless energy fusing one in to the other, over and above a customary step. "I've a mind to dive!" and set self-sinking in the sludge to wrest from this paralytic a darkened grip fathoms below the surface plain. Cheapened talk then, hearty to me now, but arresting a bold effort. Here lies a preface to a promise: reclamation of that tether. Time was time did not matter; only the attempt, to attempt anything was a living proof. With dynamism, accoutrements, and slipping awkwardly beneath the still; all weight shifting, cask like, then pushing and probing a wasteland. Mine eyes were weak there. That trait so roundly prized owed nothing from the deep and so, received nothing just. Cutting through surface slop, wrapped in film, a grin resting familiarly with the ferocity of youthful error. Failure? But a moment. Success as well, and a bond formed fit and deep worked its way inside.