It isn't like that. It isn't a left turn too early, a lark awake at night, thick brown light in an open field; unpredictable: a bad or counter-miracle. It is only wanton.
You know how it is Suddenly, something trapped between your toes: the world has a strangled voice, it is unroofed. You want the comfort of normal walls, normal light, normal noise; in your hand is a hot brand you'd halfway use to smith it back together and halfway swallow. I had different plans for this vacation than destruction.
I had plans. You had plans. The earth planned its axial tilt; the weather planned its burning; we put aside too little water. A few plants were familiar - the ruined piñon pine I remembered from the placard. One lonesuch tree that made a little niche at a defiant angle into the air and outlived all except its orphaning. How we thought we could fare better, I cannot say.
Ten feet up by one hundred feet over: one liter water per mile climbed: fatigue. Fatigue. The quiet supremacy of all these rules for living like transit and occultation refraction and dimness exertion hunger peristalsis pulling down huge loads of sunlight into the ***** gully like bread and meat.
You will not see the bottom no matter how hard you look.
If blood I am, then what kind of blood? Unsettled and unsettling. The circulatory system has an apt name: sometimes I can feel yesterday's blood in the same neurons, saying the same thing. I have no choice but to repeat it. Time sheds its significance. I have no continuity: I have rhythms.
The new day, on fire and sitting in the trickle you held a golden fish in your palm as if you had made it by will and cupped, it circled in the valley of your fingers and I ate from the vision of care.
Erosion: isn't that what made these furrows? I beg it to unmake me flat like a seabed and many fathoms green where the sun will never reach me.
In the penumbra of your anger I do not fear dying, only dying unclean. Heights are all the same. They would all break me and none would enough. The grasshoppers and gecko hatchlings all die in their way, rubbed in the hot dry dust. Parched, I gnash my stone teeth and tongue of chaparral - I am making a song to say die with me but smile at me.
Then I see it through flashes of temper, frame by frame, like a fingertip behind a pinwheel: a dream of something distant that is also true. Dreams of freedom alongside dreams of dying.