By Lance Larsen
It is almost too much-the fingers of sky, the hill like a great breast. I want subtlety, the wonder of a moon looking only like a moon, of things unfolding slowly and meaning nothing. I want to walk bare streets and pause beneath an upstairs window of an old house and say, with no conviction at all, that inside a man named Bob is reading magazines while his wife is bathing. Tonight I want to swim in a pool and not think of other pools, just this one before me, how the water slaps the edges and the green light colors my arms and the bats swoop on insects. I want to see flower stalks and clouds and old cars and cats sliding across grass without seeing myself. I want to look at the stars and say they are not worth their light without being pulled into darkness. Lance Larsen