Cover your tracks. You know how footprints stain the ground, cleaning it where it should be dirty. Nobody should ever come here. Here, take a spoon. Take also a little of that ground and put it back where it belongs. The waters are coming. They need their puddles to rest. And then maybe the rains will grow again, where there is water, where there is space for clouds to gather, together.

The leaves curl up under the heat. The air twists into smoke, becoming visible where there once was nothing. We must be careful. Scents waft through the winds and maybe someone will smell you here. Exactly. Rub out those spots on the floor. There was nobody here and there will be nobody when you leave.

Outside the wall small birds the size of raindrops chirp hello. The sunlight tries to flow through the cracking paint but it is not water. I am not water. See how I am solid in this chair. I don’t need wings to fly. Cover my tracks. Clouds bleed rain and they make footprints shaped like puddles. The air curls up over pools, grimaces, cringes. Skies threaten to fall.

Retreat is only an option. Grass will eventually paint red lines on the floor, putting the earth where it belongs. The ocean is vast and the waters will come. You learn to mould trouble into little beads, plant them redly in a row. Smell the sun, fresh out of the morning mist. It’s the moon, but only stronger.

Maybe that cloth over there was what we once wore. Everything in a pile. There’s sound and it comes from inside my head. Cover me. Nobody knows I am here. Turn me into a leaf, hiding high inside nests, seeing everything, hearing nothing. Bleeding is what I used to do years ago. Now curl up and turn brown, and then there will be life again.

It is so hard to get words to mean what they are. Fall on them and devour them, and yet they come out once more, blind, ready to try to deceive. It is so easy to stop meaning anything. There is nothing left to want. The world stains all with grey. Touch everything. It is so hard to get things to sound like what they may be. The air in the room remains still, remains clean.

Space rushes headlong at the land. The waters are coming. The leaves curl up under the heat. Let’s stop a while, let’s talk. Lend me some trees. I want to draw lines on the floor, green lines, patting down the ground. Perhaps something resembles beauty. Unfurl the heat, throw it away. Make it all still. Exactly. There can be nobody here.

Feel your voice struggle. If I should shout loudly at a black canvas it might stay black. Nothing means what it is. Everything is what it used to mean. Where do we think? Cover all we do. The ground will still be there and we can walk on it for the rest of our lives. But the puddles need their water to survive. And the sun will always be still.


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