by Michael Zak

Think about the sound of someone's movement through a forest. I am only being eaten. I am only in a pile of muscle and skin. Veins have an abhorrent texture. When I am alive, the sun moves up one side of the earth, off-axis, glides overhead before a trail of smoke, then lands across the sea. I have memorized the stars that float directly above my clicking eyes.


Michael Zak lives in Chicago. His blog is here.