Free Write 1 (Week 8)

Up north, we’re recycling ice cores
mere samples unearthed: each slice the casing
of a story like the flicker
frames in a film canister.
Stories and histories
and the illusion of motion.
We like our pictures
spinning from reel to reel
our history being cylindrical,
our stories unraveling. Because
asking when does spring
turn summer? finds it’s appositive
theory in some uncountable number.
In layman’s terms: the New Year just
cuts another slice in the pie.

Meanwhile, on Coney Island,
a palm reader begins and ends
on the cusp. Nevermind the skin’s
creases or that ulcer at 35. They’ll
bore it out, band aid it white
with cotton balls.