It's funny how you fight so hard to escape some claws, and then once they are behind you, it's impossible to remember their grasp. You turn the mechanics over in your hand, watch the metal gears crumble at your touch, how did this street mean so much once? Your eyes? I move the car and the exterminator comes to seal the cracks in your armor, we take this whole life one day at a time. This morning I read a passage that tasted like magic and only later realized I had written it. Sometimes this whole life surprises us.
Mostly it comes in fits and spurts.
(This is the first day of my life, he says, but you think every day is the first day, really, and shouldn't you make it memorable? I read another passage, look out the window, watch a full moon rise over the Lower East Side. Think that's exactly it and call it a day. Miracles so rarely announce themselves in fireworks. You mostly know they've been there by the scent that lingers when they've left.)
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