It is written somewhere in the sky—we are supposed to forget quickly. How? An elephant stands on a tiny pedestal. In a field under a tent. The ringmaster spectacular in his tails and topcoat, expert in redirection, points towards the acrobat. The acrobat astounds because he could fall.
The other day I told my friend the story in which you fell through the floorboards of an old barn. As I told the story, I recalled the manner in which you carefully transferred milk to a newborn calf. You beckoned to Babette singing come Bossy Boss come Boss.
Years since you carved onto your forearm that pig with wings but have you ever noticed that the word pigeon encompasses the word pig? Once, in the evening on Fifth or Third, I saw a pigeon drop into a vat of mustard. I watched its dark wings thrash. Then yield.
