type slowly.

things that go bump.

Posted in words by Lara Crombie on November 12, 2009

Trees fall over on purpose. You read about a man trapped under one for days. When they found him he was missing half his leg. The picture showed his face pink, relieved and something else, not fear but unsettled. Later he tells his wife he thinks the tree fell for a purpose. He’s sorry. He finds God. You point out that really, God found him. As we’re eating and

having one of those wide eyed contests, see who can look interested the longest, you argue that humans are viruses without borders. I say Earth self-medicates and would you please pass the peas. Heavy rain falls outside, our Chinet rattles. We knew a Noah once who collected toy boats. Nevermind the irony, he drowned last summer, so

at his funeral I made a boat procession and sat amongst his little cousins. Sadness smells like leather cooking in the sun or accidental fermentation or even wilted roses. Only, wrong story. If a man falls in the forest does he make a sound. I worry during dinner because my stomach’s full.  To be fulfilled stops wondering.

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