Skid

Honeycomb

Honeycomb One wakes up glad that the errands of sleep are over. The day is yours to fritter away on consciousness, goldfinches hammering foil over foil, the sunglasses missing a wing drawn from the glove box in sudden sun. So what will your allotment of joy and terror be? A blood test? The usual business at the rink? All along the hollow body drill holes an inch and a half apart and you’ve got yourself a flute. Fire penetrates the brainpan like syrup, sweet glue, its blush turns out to be pigment ground from bricks. Such is the constitution of matter in these dimensions— it’s always something, some gorilla in the parking lot or the boys in research cooking up a new spill. But what fun to walk 44 the resilient walkways over the roof of Dis, just here and there from the sewer lids’ nipples, bursts of steam. This is the place where I was a student. See, here are students now memorizing the parts of the bee. And here’s where I first tried to speak to my only love, on this bridge over a sheet of ice. It was only later, at Ye Olde Wash House, that the process seemed so unlikely and ordained by the random plunking of particle into particle which in one case levels mountains, another produces light. 45 ...