For a Dead Ant Preserved in the Middle of a Clear Straw
It looked as though I were inhabiting the thought the way a loon inhabits a lake. Most of the time I could follow my head and the neck to which my head was attached moving steadily through the water's thought. And then, now and then I'd be gone, pulled under the thought's surface, erased with ease, decreased in size, no where to be found. That's the kind of thought this thought was. No words were where this thought went. No logic to improve its consequences. No solace, no brightness, no next thought. But it most certainly was not a first thought, perhaps it was no thought at all. Though I inhabited that thought the way matter inhabits a black hole. When all of sudden, now and then, I'd see my head and my neck once again appear, they would be no where near where I'd last seen them last before. It was no empty thought, this still lake on purpose, it filled to the brim every inch it served. I sensed I was doomed to feel as it were where it went where it chose. Were I to escape, land would be to me what land is to a loon.