This happened in Detroit or Iceland. This is inside me. It’s not something you can fully comprehend unless you’re carrying a giant measuring device of Celtic origin or one of those mirrored spy cameras that allow you adequate perspective.

This is a territory. This is a bringing together of disparate leaves.

I fix things, an elk-like tendency to bugle, old rose bushes with too many dead limbs reaching away, miracle cheese.

Science was an aberration. Religion another aberration. Even tomorrow is an aberration for a few of us lingering.

We would do this if this was the thing to do, sayeth the rosebuds. I encourage them.

Or the air above a well in northwest Arkansas.

There’s something mouth-like about Texas. It doesn’t need fixing. You might tell it to wait for assistance.

Words like Abigail and disturbance are included to enhance plausibility. Plausibility enhances reality. Reality doesn’t enhance anything.

I fix his head, which is a clam and has only tomorrow for an excuse. It doesn’t need an excuse.

Words like the delicate bone-plug an owl drops are included to add gravity to the situation implied.

Moss hammocks like green wattles descended and lumbering side to side in the whispering heat. They’re not broken, but I fix them anyway.

I’m on my way to Arizona. The water table needs more than a spiritual application of aberrant reasoning. The water table needs me.

The vibrating leaves of Lemon Verbena collecting breezes that smell classical and not entirely tealess. Some things don’t need fixing.

When I am with you, I am confused, so I go away, and I am confused.

Ralph Eugene Meatyard wearing a badly carved Halloween mask. I don’t fix that for example.

Morality turned in the blade of the flashlight and brushed the gravel driveway with its greasy tail. The rind fell like a mistaken smile and became once more merely garbage and not an entrance to the blossoming darkness.

It happens inside me. I can’t measure it. I let the rosebuds. I let the darkness.