Nonfigurative, he
said, as if the night sky
itself were his weapon.
Stars sank, and the lake stalled
and she could smell in the
cold his sweat, the mist coating
the grass, one hand on
his calf. The muscle would
sometimes suffer, trembling
to a knot. He moved through
his own cloud of smoke. Day
eating day, he sighed, and
the lactic acid re-
leased and he had to pre-
tend he was stable. The
following day it rained
and then the drops turned to
ice, and then his hands grew
restless in the weeds, the
blue water dimmed in his
mind again—but he was
sliding through new snow. From
a distance she heard the
pressure in the joists, like
waking on an invisible
boat at night, the tightness
of the heavy wood float-
ing on water . . . Thank God
it wasn't a dream, was
what he rose up thinking,
the sound of paint brushes
on the wall, shoes tumbling
into a corner. The
lights bowed out again. He
wasn't sure but he thought
he might be better off
walking away from some
highway, beech bark and
the humming of yellow
jackets asleep inside
their paper nests in the
snow. He made a fist. He
could feel one eye alive
inside its cooling socket.
The sun keened behind a hill . . .
