Wheels

When I entered the woods alone; went in there as a boy; small, blind, very much in isolation, I invariably talked to myself. I remember saying, “Blue Jay has roller skates.” According to contemporary memory theory I shouldn’t recall this. Instead I should only recall a formative feeling over which my contemporaneous imagination inscribes it’s own ideas. But “hinx minx” I really said the Blue Jay has roller skates and I remember why. He was so loud and busy I just knew he was zooming along the branches on tiny wheels.

Now the world is filled with tiny wheels. Joy rolls. Sometimes joy falls like a leaf through space but trust me, it still rolls as if tumbles. Even when joy is darkness against your cheek, it still rolls.

Tears roll and mouths in love roll. All livelier dreams glide on wheels we’ll never be able to see.

Every human being rides their own wheels made of silver light.

I have seen a woman transform into a linden tree and I’ve seen other things as well. Blindness is no impediment to seeing things. I’ve seen autumn trees with dripping bark, reality weighing itself in a rising loaf of bread.

Wheels glimmering cold along the horizon.