1. In the uppermost peeling-paint corner, the soapsuds flung in some forgotten opera stick white like the mottled cobwebs above them. Air thick and dizzy with the excesses of song, and the dangling traditions that scale above us to glower down.
2. I can bear the summer water scalding hot, the plash on blisters, and even burns. We lose the part of ourselves that says "Might this be too much?" when we become enthralled in rain-roof concussions against the porcelain arcs where my body was meant to be like the thing it stands on. The shower and the bathtub, or the earth that scoops out the flowers from the seeds that fall from trees. We all hold our waters. 3. Two sheets of blue plastic and the continents of water between them: maps that will never solidify, and the bubbles between them. The negative space, where, as for aquatic life, water becomes the continent and the air, a burning emptiness. One day we will swim in the earth, we will drink lava to live. _______________________________________________ Five7Five mailing list [EMAIL PROTECTED] http://www.pairlist.net/mailman/listinfo/five7five
