she sat at the pool's edge and pondered death. something about the way her ankle turned and the way the foot fell. it is always about the way something falls. the way something is always falling. the afterwards and the after thoughts. the sentences that spill out, or leak like the pin pricked flesh. her body is a shallow body of water, all in itself. perhaps, her toes are dancing upon some extended version of her past, her present, her all and more. the water bugs float like sunlight on the water's top. the swirls and curls of the wind forcing them up, around, up, and down. the tree's in bloom, one red, a blue, two blue, a yellow with white hue framing the petal. it falls, too. her toes are chilled. her lips chatter... about something we all should have forgotten.
she corrected me in whisper: it isn't death. with that her foot fell, ankle pointed and toes first. like a diver with perfect form. there was no splash. her body was scripted, the words 'imitation is everything' were arranged along her spine. the grooves of the spinal chord acting as the blue lines of the page. she turned away and spoke: 'i lost two cities, lovely ones.' without her eyes i knew who she was. that line forming the most beautiful line i had ever read. that line was my muse. as, in fact, was she. her body nude represented every symbol literature offered. but, i do not speak french and so much was lost between us.
Matt Williams