THE AGE

It occurs to me the wheel entertains illicit love. It spins beyond flesh and image to sense how often I am able to avoid the hallway where the old man entered the room. A small, flat white stone waited for him, but I took it that morning and ran across the street. It seems to me this confession is troubled with moss covered cliffs- a touch of pink and the widest shore waiting for the old man to wipe his hands clean and leave the world. A smooth, polished jaw of a cat waits for me in the other house. When I break in, the bone glistens on the kitchen table, the dishes washed, the meal long gone. It might be wise to think of this before I go—once, I was that cat but now, my amphibious pose is enough to paint the walls green and hold back the sea until the old man sinks to the bottom of the ocean floor.

THE AGE

Ray Gonzalez

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