10-13-07
Things creep along this way. Sometimes he just wants to bury himself completely. Scrape of shovel against skin, burns. Just wait, people say. They point to the layers over the layers, the places where you can draw lines together to make more stars. Superimposition. Doubly exposed. Where there’s one, there are probably many. Like mice in the kitchen. He looks down at his thighs; unflexed, they go jelly. The light will fade. The stars of course are dead. Millions of years ago, in fact. But now is now. It would be nice, he thinks, to be able to pull off a part and have it grow back. Or not.
