| K WATCHES TV with complete attention. We sit on a bed in a small
room. He spins on hands and knees when lightning strikes out blue
in the black window behind him. Terrific claps of thunder make him
leap out on the bed startled, calling my name. He doesn’t know the
moon behind those clouds is nearly full, and that with spring bursting
blossoms there arrives an accompanying violence of atmosphere. Now
we both hear that pitter-patter, the loud, insistent rhythm of drip from
the roof. The television light casts patterns over the room as also the
sudden quick blue flashes penetrate the sheer white curtains. I sit with
him writing this, his eyes integrated with image and his warm arms and
chest against me. These words form close to him, an influence of his
young muscles and quick, jerky rhythms. I was going to write some
pompous sounding horseshit. Scratch it out instead. Night rhythms in
the pen, inky blots soak into the page. Not of purpose or intent. Anole
stirs against a screen, its cautious sleek body poised to move. We live in
image, as we are to each other—incomplete. Disappear and come back
rapidly. These intermittent flashes. Sit with him by the window. Warm sheets kicked on the bed. See my face reflected now. In the wind’s eye. |
(K Watches TV)
