Nailed to the tallest spruce on the mountain, the placard read “Dull teeth dismember whatever they can catch.” Dry lips cling to warm sap. Tree bark scar dancing imprints.
It feels like the silhouette of a timberline against a windless, lightly snowing February.
Not long after, the wind carries the spruce tree into the sky, its root system gliding beneath the trunk, this impossible jellyfish. You feel it where your mandibles fracture.
You can’t fight melancholy with intimacy, though it can’t hurt to resist expectation.
Now, some cosmic heat boils the nebular water in this crater, scar of a thousand small comets crashed against the desert’s flesh. Imagine: naked in the wound to become sand again, or the painted skull of a buffalo. Funny thought, you in celestial bathwater, orange peels and stag beetle bodies.
INSTANT NOODLES 