How could the eye know how amiable a curve is to
the wandering hand. How a sharp angle lures us onto
paths known only to the sleep of reason. Going from
metal, which will not succumb, to touching wood is no
superstition, but a keener pleasure than was dreamed
of in my mothers womb. A board may forget the tree
it came from, but the smell sticks to the grain, and the
knots ensure a heritage of resin darkening with time.
What worries me is radiation, the way it touches from a
distance. And why am I so attracted to its secret
MIRROR
Rather than assuage bitterness with garden work I’ve
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