Saturday, October 23, 2010

both waxing and waning.

You tell me that you are going fishing tonight and immediately I am surrounded by lush darkness, water slipping like wet skin all around the boat. The oars slap the surface and cut in, so loud over the low lapping of the river on the boat's hull. The night comes close around you. Nylon lines cast in, and they're like lines on paper, too thin to be unimaginary, and now you are pulling off your shirt, throwing it down by your kicked-off shoes, now you are in the water.
Your friend protests that you'll scare away the fish but you are unworried- you could both be out here all night. Above you, endless sky peopled with stars, planets, moons, celestial lights that shine down exactly how you feel and reflect it in the water around you. It is broken like mirrors, the evening above and below and you swim through it. Cooler now than it was before, but dangerous, delightful. Your hair drenched to your grinning face, indistinguishable, like your form in the water, like your heart.
Who are you? You are a mystery in the night, taking the form of a shadow as your friend pretends to row away. You may have salt in your hair. You may be dripping the seven seas all over the deck, but you don't exist. Your laboured breath, your voice saying something I can't overhear, well both the breath and the voice are imaginary, like how you feel for me. I look out the window onto a sunny, motionless afternoon and in that moment you disappear.


  1. For some reason this made me think of Tim Winton. And not in a bad way.

  2. High praise! Thanks!
    I think that reading 'Cloudstreet' significantly changed my writing style forever.

  3. so very tim winton.
    in the best way possible.