I was whistling in a stiff wind, wanting
you to hear me and respond appropriately.
Nothing came of it; my words split and devolved
until all that was left was a broken sequence
of words – no, less that words as that suggests
structure. Words; shall we call them such even
though they were faggots of brush burning towards
the fire. Fire seems sometimes to act like a cave;
it makes echoes that hang around; sticking itself
into cracks of the stone, speaking within to
those who know nothing of its course. The shrill
sound scraped and scratched every surface. It’s
possible to pull a language from stone, if its
surface has been scratched and scraped by
tools of a sort, that moment of imagination
can be translated and settled down. Words
are elements with their own structure scientists
can interpret and give meaning too. It takes
but one joke to threaten to rule; any structure
can be collapsed using the appropriate words.
John Gimblett
Illustration: Atlanta Wiggs