cornering the sphere

3.

“You wait in here,” David said to himself, “let them go ahead. Skipping rope and breaking windows. Nursing cheeks with dribble cups of despair. Let me instead to time. To know the back of the hand. The intimate land. The face of this basement wall. To know the in between”

He had said he was going forth, to the optimal terrain. He promised to soon send for his wife, his daughters—once established. But he’d been secretly ill. The doctor shaking beads said a thing was growing inside that would burst, shredding his peel—through the skin, plump and ripe. “For a time, I will live only in desire. Soon they'll forget, but me…”

He’d not packed. He would not be traveling, as much as waiting—waiting in different places until this ripeness overtook him. He'd sent a telegram in place of himself; simply: “Delayed. Love. David.”

His heart fermenting. He'd be drunk by it before--before Goliath. He'd learn to fashion the 13 arrows, fletched virtues. His spine--the knotty long bow. He took a hut next to Gauguin.




2.
truancy

1.
he slud into third


l'a-ro