Wednesday, March 26, 2008. We wake, locked out of our house by sleeping roommates, her head nuzzled into chest, when a rasp on the door won't wake them. This is your morning wake-up call.
(A typewriter and two hands typing the words as they are spoken. The shadows of the hands against the walls.)
I am a champion in dust. We settle out to the right where the winds blow west and the bats shoot from their temples. Austin caves shaped like barrels in circus corners and the stretch of their hums leaning against the flaps that fold into one another. Just like the nights of putting ears on the pillowed ground, grass and earth much colder than bare feet remembered. How hollow it must be past the ear drum tickling grass and the settled dirt, no sign of the hot core the text books told us about. All of it is empty, like the caves those bats pour out of. Wake up.
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