Monday, November 28, 2005

dry water

It was early and a good strong frost. I sprayed de-icer all over and the whole windscreen went into tears. Things were going so well that I decided to use the wipers. Big mistake, it froze into an instant film, white and salty and seemingly dry.

I had been thinking of dry water, walking back from a place at night when you see the tarmac dark and shining but matt, like polished leather. Even if you bent to the ground and ran your finger along it (but you don't do this, weirdo alert) your finger would just be raw and chilly. The only way you really know it's moisture is because if someone drives off in a car it leaves an oblong of summer.

Another place you get dry water is in an old garlic clove. You start to peel it and it's just a mass of white dustveils that you crack into the compost-pail hoping there's actually something in there and in the end out comes a very wise old stringer which is bendy but you can still chop it. However, you can also chop clay.

Then there's you, you're a purling stream being so alive but your wrist is dry as a snake in the ordinary course of business, your breasts touching and I suppose that's why I'm lolling you here, a shoal darting between us.

The sunrise came up yellow as I drove, with a smeary sundog in the corner of a cloud.

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