Drill Bit Made of Water

38 the minnesota review David Dodd Lee Drill Bit Made of Water I have sometimes stopped long enough So that in my stopping I feel I am moving backwards. I am not. I keep Feeling my way down the corridors That sweat like cattle breathing. (They don't, really, they are just too bright And populated.) And so then somebody merges into traffic Who looks like you. I could've been elsewhere, putting a quarter down For a newspaper, so I think it matters, Because when she stops walking she stands between us In a wide gulf Of business and air, radio waves, But still Or moving she's as one who grows wet With love and fear. Then I think oddly of a cracker breaking loudly On film, in slow motion. We have these dreams. I remember the time Father put his fist Inside a bread bag And used it as a puppet Because mother was cutting A paperback into quarters with a really good Serrated butter knife. His hand must have sweated in that plastic as he Spoke my name. "You didn't lose your underpants In the bushes again, did you?" I should have said, "How the hell Lee 39 Should I know?" How can I tell what's what, even Now, when they have Rolling sidewalks In the middle of hallways, Along with a lane for standing still While you continue to move, And a lane for walking while riding That allows you to believe You will get home faster. ...