| What I Do on Saturday Afternoons At the space where the streets meet in front of the United States Courthouse I count ten pillars supporting an institution and think this number must mean something or else it is the law. Afternoon warmth has draped over this square and pasted clouds along what may be a horizon. If I could scale the sky I would see the square I sit in is small; smaller than my heart sounding in my chest as I watch you move across my body in a sweep of stop and start. On the wind comes down a wish, and, oh, what a wish; to crack you open, gently, roll you along a hard surface the way I would a boiled egg. So the shell slides off, revealing the lucid center, still whole. |