The Price of Anticipation

Osip was reading the name of a stone that fell apart for a seed, an imaginary river of air in his lungs, the broken warmth of spring still months away. Some bone effigies had been carefully disguised as readers of books and were waiting.

What, then, could he discover? Perhaps it’s that tree people were not welcome in these priceless rooms, but sultry lips correct as badges were attendant. Or that his life had become large and lonely and smelled of blood and iron.


And Osip says, “Come.” Because you are not here yet, he says this. Not until your body arrives can your presence be adequately acknowledged. He says, for years now, he’s been trying to swallow his tongue and it makes it difficult to listen. He reads hair.  He reads buried fog. (But they too answer with their eyes closed.)

He covers the hothouse seedlings with atmosphere. With moisture and with bodily fluids. With a great deal of empathy and with aspiration.


Several readers were caught using this text to isolate Osip. (And yet you were not arrived. And Osip was faltered.)

The patience for it is a single priest’s collar. (Osip doesn’t need his terror brothered.)


In this way the cuffs of Osip’s white shirt were beginning to fray, but the golden cufflinks quickly distracted notice. The charcoal suit struggled to separate from the impression of pressed dust.


By now the iron rim has sprung from the wheel and the wood will break if it travels further. Osip’s portrait has been carved to reveal itself only as the cart passes slowly without pausing, held back from ascending by the cathedral columns it carries.

The entire experience seems to be a sadness made of copper and piecrust and a dog with the wrong place to go.


That’s Osip’s persistent desire on the fence with its legs circling and circling in the wind. Wild running and what looks like digging and lots of getting nowhere but looking happy. Even the excitable rabbit traveling next to him with his four lean legs makes no more progress than he does, racing the moon inside and catching up with the seasons and sometimes a couple of curious bluebirds.