|Cover “The Therapist” by Pat Wilson|
Bicycling across the bridge before dawn. The small sarcophagi in my bike’s back basket are rattling. Their metal edged corners clicking, just shy of the tempo made by a leaf caught in one of my wheels. This, I think is a newer aubade, a fresher morning that orange juice. A commercial. A car. A windowpane. An eye. Late night is the same blue. Buildings of the small city illumed from inside, like a swimming pool. A castle in the sky or a castle at the beach. Your lips. Photographs of every actuality not perceptible by ordinary means. Halos of heat and fingerprinted, skinprinted sheets. Sweat and the sweet exhaustion….