Scribe. With a name known only to himself. Waits to pen letters to friends in Tunisia
Algiers, Morocco, or
Amsterdam. Writing to family, we scribble thumbnail sketches of ourselves, or who
we remember startled us
this morning in the mirror. Hindsight is 20/20, and rear views are reserved for blurs.
Usual's the linchpin. Wax rolled ball in between the fingers. Monogamy of a print. If there were
ever anyway out, it's in the eye
of the storm. Expanse of swollenness, swelling. Day is decorated different, less ribbons and flags
than expected. The profound
takes it on the knees. Sound of civilized violence, cymbals, champagne bottles, blind man's cane.
Forever and the time it took to return. Walking a plank, weather underneath is the same. Smells of salt,
mermaid foam. Call it
a day with teaspoons of regret and honey. As detritus is detrimental to one's health, hillocks
fade into sea. Placidity
twirls its thumbs. Flowers begin to flower, not knowing the month. Sundays, all in a row. To
speak is to beach comb
Philip Kobylarz is a teacher and writer of fiction, poetry, book reviews, and essays. He has worked as a journalist and film critic for newspapers in Memphis, Tennessee. His work appears in such publications as Paris Review, Poetry, and The Best American Poetry series. He is the author of a book of poems concerning life in the south of France and a short story collection titled Now Leaving Nowheresville. His creative non-fiction collection All Roads Lead from Massilia is forthcoming fromEverytime Pressof Adelaide, Australia and he has a collection forthcoming from Brooklyn'sLit Riot Presstitled A Miscellany of Diverse Things.