Jessica L. Walsh
The Old Story
It was, as they say, fleeting.
It was, as they say, fleeting.
He knew little of the science of
it, was unable to explain how suspicion
had placed him under guard over
night, how the motors of his fear
could drown the sounds of daylight,
louder than the galaxy's rim jostling
the spheres with reckless ambivalence.
He knew only not
to travel to you. You
say he is the animal in the corner
of the shed, musky, protective
of that patch of earth and the right
to die alone. He pieces
together your numbers and writes
your story from a safe
distance. Another day, you'll be left.
it, was unable to explain how suspicion
had placed him under guard over
night, how the motors of his fear
could drown the sounds of daylight,
louder than the galaxy's rim jostling
the spheres with reckless ambivalence.
He knew only not
to travel to you. You
say he is the animal in the corner
of the shed, musky, protective
of that patch of earth and the right
to die alone. He pieces
together your numbers and writes
your story from a safe
distance. Another day, you'll be left.
