Slow Waltz Through Inflatable Landscape

　　by Christian Hawkey

　　 At the time of his seeing a hole opened-a pocket opened-

　　 and left a space. A string of numbers plummeted

　　 through it. They were cold numbers.

　　 They were pearls.

　　 And though they were cold the light they cast was warm，

　　 and though they were pearls he thought they were eyes.

　　 They blinked. He blinked back.

　　 Anything that blinks

　　 must be friendly， he thought， until he saw the code

　　 -a string of numbers-carved into their sides

　　 and grew afraid. He tried to close

　　 the space

　　 but it was no longer his own. He tried to close his eyes

　　 but they were no longer his. He tried to close

　　 his mouth， his hands， his ears

　　 but they were no longer

　　 his， were never his to begin with： this was the time of his seeing.

　　 The world opened. A line began. A tree grew above him

　　 and he thanked it. A sun dawned over the line

　　 and he thanked it.

　　 A building unfolded abruptly and blocked the sun

　　 and he put his hand on its side and thanked it

　　 for the shade， he put his hand

　　 on the sidewalk

　　 and gave thanks to the cement-it was cool and wet and

　　 took the shape of his hand into it-he put his eyes

　　 at the feet of a woman

　　 and she lifted them，

　　 to her own， and he thanked her， from the inside， and she understood.

　　 Wires swirled above him， straightened out along an avenue

　　 and the lights came on. One moon rose.

　　 A second moon

　　 rose on the windshield of a car and he thanked them both.

　　 This was the time of his seeing. This was the time.

　　 An electric green beetle shuttled out

　　 of the darkness

　　 and landed on his forearm， pulsing， he didn't remove it.

　　 It seemed relieved. Some things work very hard

　　 to leave the ground. Somewhere an infant

　　 called out， sharply，

　　 was comforted into silence. The deep note of an owl opened a tunnel

　　 in the air. He was growing tired. He didn't want to stop.

　　 The world opened.

　　 A line began.

　　 It traveled out ahead of him and returned， tracing a wave，

　　 white foam gathering， gathering the moonlight，

　　 black water rising into a wall

　　 and he held up his hand：

　　 the wall froze， trembling， the head of a seal

　　 poked through， looked around， withdrew，

　　 he liked the way its whiskers

　　 bent forward

　　 as it withdrew and he liked the way his hand had stopped a wave

　　 so he thanked his hand and moved on，

　　 into the outskirts， the taste

　　 of salt on his tongue，

　　 the taste of brine， it made him thirsty although he had no thirst.

　　 This was the time of his seeing. This was the time.

　　 And the skeletal shadow of a radio tower

　　 loomed to the right of him，

　　 creaking， a red gleam， then nothing， he thought he heard music

　　 passing through him and he was right：

　　 he was humming something

　　 from a song，

　　 but he couldn't remember the words， which was fine，

　　 they were sentimental anyway so he

　　 thanked the radio tower

　　 and kept moving，

　　 the road turning to gravel， the gravel turning to dust，

　　 the ditches sang with frogs， the ditches were silent，

　　 a pair of yellow eyes waited for him

　　 to pass and so he passed，

　　 calmly， since the beetle was with him， trying to refold its wings，

　　 and the tree was with him， unfolding its leaves，

　　 and a man was with him， walking at his side

　　 -he didn't need to ask

　　 who he was， so he didn't， but in the corner of his eye

　　 he caught a glimpse： he seemed familiar，

　　 he looked like him

　　 and he was，

　　 although a string of numbers was carved into his side.

　　 He asked if he could touch them and he said Yes，

　　 touch them. They were cold numbers.

　　 They were pearls.

　　 He asked if he could kiss him and he said Yes， kiss me， and so he did.

　　 It was a strange kiss. It was a beautiful kiss.

　　 It seemed to last a long time.

　　 It seemed to last a lifetime.