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Show 12, Jeffries, Islamorada [Section 2] While she started up the hot water and the small refrigerator he changed for a swim. As he stepped from the bathroom out to the old dock, she eyed him oddly. "I'd think a body would be tired. . ." But he was off, swimming, cutting the thin floral scum on the canal water. And she began to run back and forth, concerned-like on the small dock, by the high rotted ladder where people had once stepped down into boats. Hearing her, he would search for a word. About the personality of what was, or what did at one time live in the cut. An alien ambience, he thought, no, not alien. More a choice, a volition, malevolence. As she yelled, "They's crocodiles in there." Dorian, How hard it is to write, when it's just the silly phrases as if I were away at girls' camp, saying 'I miss you,' when really, I'm very much into the sweet sorrow of parting. . . The birds made me think of you, a lucky Audubon wintering down there with the great flocks, and yet some have stayed, trapped in the inertia of the crumbs I put out for them, as you perhaps were. . . The early supper of winter and they're still here The jay scowls into my camera making the primitive request: "Don't put my spirit in that box. . ." |
