Wound and wound, layers of shroud, wounded.
A smashed-open golf ball: hacked, exposed. An abrupt destruction, an unseen force. I watch the ball's unwinding, continual and rapid. An ongoing hiss, a spinning: a seemingly eternal release. I see this letting go, this sudden spring, this undoing of whatever -- of all -- that was coiled up inside.
(This golf ball meant nothing/this golf ball contained multitudes.)
It was only a rubber band. A rubber band inside a dimpled plastic shell.
I was small and scared and exhilarated.
After all these years, I talk and talk and talk to myself, talk myself into circles, talk myself to frenzy, bearings lost, tangled.
This writing is a slow unraveling, a long-term project to simply say the simplest things.
The small declarative sentences, the small declarative gestures, are the most difficult.
