sunday afternoon on the river. the bridge cartwheels over the shores like the top-string in a tapestry. in the water, the sky is deep and high all at once. canoes are paintbrushes, fish are wind. a ledge bears a trickle that isn't a waterfall. it is falling faster, and faster, and faster more.
the dream boy; his eyes are smiles and marbles. he is a lanky replica of a birch tree sketched by Escher, impossible in some way. he substitutes language with laughter. his arms are blankets and his fingers are butterflies, but his face, his face--
he has no face.