after Nuts & Reverie by Jonathan Regier
A squirrel seen in Australia is like an egg resting on your head.
(I would apologize for associating the frantic and the smooth, the compulsive and the enigmatic, but scholastically, emotionally, it is right, plus you started it.)
Inside the egg are stock rooms, libraries, liquor stores. They are unevenly distributed, chances are. They are Australian, pushing down the waters unevenly in that part of the world.
The squirrels in Australia are more than 99% invisible. But still less than 100%. So I wonder. How do we divide a squirrel? Is it the difference between white and yolk? White and iris? Between wick and childhood?
Between falling up and clinging to gravity by one's fingertips?
Swimming between the stocks, books, and bottles, tow-headed children, crane drivers harnessed: to their avenues, high ledges, memories of upside-down sunset in streaky panes above girderwork, of feet trimmed too short for burning, for the wind.
They are hunting the squirrels there. Their one-percent pelts. Double-hafted algorithms that can part anything, or that's what they were told at purchase, though it doesn't matter because the vendors do not give refunds.
It doesn't matter. The squirrels live a true life and everybody knows it but them. Just another doubt stickying up the measurements. It is a red red. And an unred. Or. Try laying a knife edge to it.
The egg burns with a calm and slow flame. The flocks in the shell squirrel in delight, a chance liquid running up the walls. Broth, liquor and ink. The semisalt of waveform. Tide by balance.
The powerlines die off into radio waves, bobbing on the air, bonehums.
The corner of your vision, a squirrel startles at the snap. The egg falling from one's head spills an ocean with an incomplete margin of error.
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