July 11, 2012
Fault Lines
He pours water into a cup: at room temperature, the cup is white, but, after he microwaves it, and before steeping a tea bag with mint leaves, he notices outlines of shards have formed above the water. As the cup cools, the lines disappear, but now he glimpses fault lines inside himself and feels a Siberian tiger pace along the bars of a cell—black, orange, white; black, orange, white—and feels how the repeating notes send waves through him. His eyes glisten, and he tries to dispel the crests, but what have I done, what can I do throbs in his arteries and veins.
