Possum Pouch

Black Stone 10

RACHEL CALLED LAST night. Her voice raced with New York energy. Reminds me of how slow life here goes in the provincial Southwest. But the Big Apple gives a lot to swallow. All that running around just to get somewhere on time. I fire an engine. Drive big oil dream highways. How else will I get "there." Smell of gas comes through the window at the filling station. Slide my card through. Enter code and pump. Wipe rain off the windshield. Chase down the business of the day under these elms and utility wires. You want to hold your breath for a moment, retaining a lyric possibility deep in the quiet of your most centered self. And it's hard now beyond photos to recall the first weeks after K's birth. Already he grows into something other. Something moves up from within him. There are many inside. A little wooden wheel barrow soaks in the rain. The wilderness never went away, it became figurative for something to reach out through, something inside. A dream of adventure. Hoa eats nuts in the gloomy dark kitchen. Her shirt doesn't fit over her exposed brown belly. K cries about something, naked, stomping and pleasing himself too with the sounds his feet are making.