Tuesday, November 29, 2011


There is something dead about swimming alone. Doesn’t matter, the salt like hands lifting your hips and knees or the smooth collapse of space between skin and surface. Try it. But now that I have told you to it will be my voice in the cold wave with you and in your skull bobbing up and down. I always do this, I am always trying to build with something broken: a small canoe of rotting two-by-fours, for instance. Why do I trust it? It is made in my image. And I set off quietly in the silent harbor and all I can hear is the sound of two oars and then the sound of sinking, which is more peaceful than you can imagine. But it is a certain kind of peace: heavy, like a body giving up.