Monday, June 9, 2008

Her club foot. It doesn’t have toes. Nothing on it moves. Just instead stomps. Saw her as I walked by. I was on the sidewalk. She sat beneath a yellow canopy. Eating. She had a fork in her hand. It moved as much as her foot. It danced practically. Compared to the foot.

I pass. Come to you. Set down inside of you notes. This woman. Her club foot. A fork. Eating. I see how then to write it down. I can see then how to write it down.

I sit writing it down. I have a dancing pencil. It shivers. I do not.

She is written down. I think. Then I think it isn’t right. I set the pencil down. My nose is sweating. There is a bead. I point to it with my eyes. There is a bead. It hurtles down. Dancing.

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