from forthcoming collection, as yet untitled
He is standing in a spot where many others once stood, as well as many other things: a structure built by beings who looked like him, a tree that did not, a brackish marsh filled with tiny creatures that darted from side to side in search of food that would propel them into the future. Before that it was a deep, wide hole into which an unseen hand poured time, filling it up but not too far, not quite to the lip, not even near enough to it to pose a threat. He is standing there, not thinking about any of that. He is thinking about the day to come, and how he will find something to eat, and then after that how he will find his wife and daughter, who are standing in another spot, maybe far away, maybe nearby, maybe calling his name, maybe incapable of doing so. He knows he needs to move but his feet are so heavy that they drive him into the earth. He abandons that plan and instead stands and listens to the brag of his own heart. He exists, which is all he can say for now, though he can also say that he understands enough about existence to know that he will end in nothing, that the time poured into the hole will not stay down, not at safe levels, not forever, that it will rise, spill over, pool around his feet, dissolve him, just as it will dissolve the rest, the structures built by beings who looked like him, the stores and schools and movie theaters and hospitals and restaurants and train stations and homes. So many homes. There were not the thoughts he wanted. He calls for his wife and daughter but his words are so light they blow away through the windless afternoon.
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