dowser
blue bic and the pterodactyl twig
in the sparse grass under the chokecherry tree, a grubby smush of detritus. I exalt a dark, sturdy twig half the width of my ring finger. twig is not nothing. the bark is purple-silver, brick-red, dog-brown. strands of pale bark at the bottom, inner fibers speckled with dots. it is not easter grass or a penny or a cvs receipt. twig is silent and not rotting, complete with nodules. twig like a swimming reindeer, twig like a scroll.
I carve soft mud away with a knitting needle, the hard part left on purpose. twig is a presence with speech bound up in its body. for what is now knobbly may reduce itself to flat without (itself) flattening. like a pop star papped to print, the paper comes out. paper held taught over twig like a paper gown, prostrate to machinations. bark and fiber crinkling dimpling the printer paper. blue bic taps in search of tracks: tracing soft, hard, free, tight, plosive. blue bic sizzles slightly in zigzag mapping. twig is a relic telling tall tales. twig is shining on a single plane. paper has no problem—its pen in motion on tension I mention. the ink-seeking of it all. transparent open grueling blue. i’m pressing. i’m four. i’m tracing my hand into a turkey. my eyes are tracking down.
tldr;
