Fri 01/13/06 at 11:40 am

One last tug on the left glove, and I step back into it. This time I’m on the right side – well, almost. Two feet of storm. Still cold, but I don’t feel it, breathe it. Come outside, what do you think? Maybe. I don’t smell it here. Rain, sometimes. And, it’s never too cold. I look down. The eyes have always been mine. The shadow has always been I. The coat has always been mine, but rarely worn. Not my landscape. Nor mine. Frozen vomit. That first night, just across the way, she held my hair. Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me. Later, we betrayed each other with private kisses. The squeaky crunch of boots on storm. I reach the crossing. “But you said you would come with me.” “I cannot.” So, I step back into it, across it. I look out and know, for the first time, the landscape that has always been mine. I step into it. And God remembered . . . Do Lord, Oh, do Lord, oh, do remember me.

* I wrote the foregoing 10 years ago as an entry for a “write like William Faulkner” contest. Back then a friend, who agreed that while in the spirit of the contest, thought the entry was too serious to be considered a serious contender.

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