Cross Section of my Day

one moment I'm a frog
another a toad
then a cat
a dog
it depends on the size of the day
the width of the hours
the infinities between the throbs of seconds

one day the fruit hangs
the next just empty space
under twigs dry as old fingers

standing on the street,
I'm a fish in shoestrings
once across, dripping,
a bird you might carry round your neck
on hot days

see them as loops, infinite strings
I'm a tiger in a hat at the door
and my lips are red,
like a taste of oak-aged wine

I once kissed a cold window and waited
for a friend to notice, thought a door knob
might take me out into the fields, out there where people
fear nothing but themselves or a distant barking dog

what you interpret as routine
I use as an instrument for making incisions
into the surface of dawn when it breaks
blue and rosy and thin as wet paper against the glass

I will pluck the apples down and you'll wonder
at those open spaces under the lines

~

another day, another space: Comfort

~

Carianne Mack Garside
Susan Gibb
Steve Ersinghaus

notes on the project