Nathan Spoon

What was it that slid through the field of my hand? 
A mountain. I will say it was a mountain, although 
it is no longer here for any other to see. It is elsewhere 
and doubtless sitting like a toad whose voraciousness 
desires to be appeased. At a key moment any hand may
grow warm and as sustaining as a grove of pawpaw
or sassafras trees. I will negotiate moving forward from

here, forward into the thickness that buries all
but the most willful homing. The seat is leather-like 
and brown and the back is mint green. What kind
of sense does that make? Who knows? But at least
people needing to sit have somewhere to do that. There 
are always turns as entirely unexpected as this. Often 
a bright pair of shoelaces appears as if out of nowhere.