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in parts, pieces |
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A grain at a time and building. He builds. A person, a person, people. People in files or blocks, segments of soldiering. The boy with a bucket and a pail. A cardboard box. A plastic shovel. Fragments of containers and people. Soldiers in granules and limp reflected glaze. Thin chips of earth. Shards. The boy builds. A finger as a turret. A finger as a bridge. Two or three fingers laid one next to the other. A boy and a moat. Sand and sand and sand. He has collected them from around, underneath dusty trees and sun. Shrinking and blackened, shrieking. He doesn't hear them. The soldiers and their screaming. He speaks instead in a language of boyhood or plain clothes, playing. Playful and undamaged, this boy, with his soldier fingers planted in the dirt. There are no guns, there are no guns, there are no guns. Ranks in lines made of black beads, the pebbles that have soaked and run, these dark ones. Those are his lines, this boy, his band of brothers making their way over the finger moat, using the finger bridge, overtaking the finger turrets. War and miniature lives, the sun still a star. The rotations still at play. The boy building, playing, adaptable always to the fingers in the ground. Building. |
1996 © 2008 |