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Saturday, December 11, 2010
In His Father's Backyard, Near the Stream
He woke in the early chill hours of a spring morning, mist filling the yard as if it were some chugging, over-worked humidifier whose vapors had begun to mingle with smoke. Peter’s eyes were closed, their lids so swollen they could not part more than a hair’s width. His first waking awareness, actually a thought in the middle-ground between the velvety suffocation of his dream and his waking, was of his breathing. He felt inside him a great system, like an abandoned sewer made home by a league of trolls. Fire-breathing furnaces amassed clouds of smoke which wafted down and around the tunnels like some ever migrating clog of hair.