5/18/2023 0 Comments The probability of miracles![]() ![]() I look at the sky and I look at the light and I look at the shape of the earth, all the same as theirs, and yet not, and the bleeding never stops.” Yet I see another her, who turns away and doesn’t do anything differently, and I can’t tell which one of them is real and which one is a reflection in clear, still water, almost sharp enough to be mistaken for real. I would like to think she turns around and goes home and does one thing differently that day because of what she has imagined, and again the day after, and the day after that. Her hair is pale brown and she is looking into the water that rushes by, muddy perhaps, perhaps clear, and something that has not yet been is bleeding into her thoughts. ![]() ![]() Did the present-world, the world that is, ever bleed into theirs, the world that was? I imagine one of them standing by the river that is now a dry scar in our landscape, a woman who is not young or old, or perhaps a man, it doesn’t matter. “I have tried not to think about them, but their past-world bleeds into our present-world, into its sky, into its dust. ![]()
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