by Forrest Gander
From his collection entitled Core Samples from the World
How cold it looks on the yellow linoleum, she said.
Like watching a thumb war, he mumbled.
Spent the whole damn morning with the damn dishwasher man, she alerted him.
Standing in line watching the nape of the man in front of me, he remembered.
Perseid meteors from the radiant in the predawn, she read.
Is it really called Sutra of Angular Severity, he wondered.
Crossed out and then stetted, she noted.
High-speed dust fluorescing as it collides with solar wind, he read.
Now it's flu season, she wondered, should we give the boy an eye-wash?
They call it painting your throat, he explained, dipping the gauze in iodine.
In their component fatigue, the days ... she mumbled.
And then you were talking in a French patois and wanting to go out, he said.
To be defiled is to be recognizable to yourself, she thought.