arrested development
like, this possum in its anxiety runs 50 metres along the top of this paling fence, at least I think it’s anxious, it obviously doesn’t want to touch the ground, being startled by me, my footsteps on gravel coming out of the darkness, then its mate, its sibling whatever, scrabbles also, the same 50 metres, from darkness to darkness…
my fingers, thus, tremble on you
one hand plays your extremity, that is, your skin, your membrane billowing under the steady pressure of, for want of a better word,
time
the other hand plays the piano, your mind, dreaming a crowded harbour of triathletes, all stamped with an indelible mark, thrashing