(no subject)

once while on assignment in dark places I imagined the cool breath of starlight blowing through an open place or the bright reflection upon lumps and piles of shattered windshield glass. like a memory of my memory. and we talked, huddled as we were in the hollow of the bowl beneath the sky, told these stories, you see, these tiny tales broke open over us in a rush of cold night wind. we heard them, the one about the walking wasps their forgotten wings hung drying in the sun, or the one with the frank and vocal child, her face covered in dewdrops, or the music of my breathing reflected from the curve of my drinking glass a whisper of some sweet herbs. we told them so- filled words upon words in the cup of our hands and drank them together till our palms were dry. and every time, every one we told grew stronger in the hearing til it could fly right out of the grass. (stars turned, night fled, day came there was evening and there was morning) so we watched our strong and winged stories hover there a moment above our crouched forms before we lost sight of them—why would they stay there with us who could only walk?