by Karl Zuehlke
Silence stretches a surface tension through my house, and I’m the one that breaks it. People are not altogether themselves. They prefer antagonisms to bread and milk. But you’re you, and me me. It is the lack of evidence we take out on one another. Take these cut hydrangeas. If I call them litmus blue, you’d say no, it was anything but that. If you say we all fall into unwitting syncopation, I say well, my guess is more like ninety records playing at once. It isn’t late but you say you have to go, and I say yes, hours are made of glass, and we keep talking about sand. A duck and some pomegranates fall out of the sky. No, you say, it’s not that at all.
