At the edge of the continent, islands rising up from the sea like the full moon sudden and large and there, demanding all your vision-- a faded chinese scroll with no inscription, no old men with walking sticks, only the silence of blue space and faraway things Where the road bends, a turnout-- a place for snapshots and lovers, the occasional suicide, a place to see things cut off from the continent, these small islands made sudden and large, demanding. Everything is far away, there's no discerning the particulars like waves or trees-- only misted over clumps of moss, a blue denim sea unevenly faded. Under your feet, packed dirt loose stones and a fine blonde dust quick to rise like smoke, quick to settle, camouflaging cigarette butts, a spent condom. Under your feet, the continent.
Copyright © 1997
Forward to Street (128 K)
Back to Under the Hoop: Fiction on the Net
Path of Least Resistance