A journal of narrative writing.
Deathless Navigator

First light, a chestnut horse takes the shape of several swans feeding in a field of just-cut corn. I inhabit the woman who watches it all through half-open blinds. In what I think is the sky, a self I can never know turns in her sleep. Now the swans shrink into hackneyed dogs but my thoughts for them are the same: a bottoming of the senses, a wind-weakened bridge across a merciless ditch. The sun bruises the frost into dew. I discover I am wholly unqualified for time— lacking in minutes, sunsets. Her husband enters the kitchen to slash yesterday’s box on the calendar. A dog trots forward with down in its maw. The sun is down—I’m surrounded by light, enough to sweep this me together and make it hold to one shape. Centuries ago I wrote for months in this room. The walls bled for me.