Death of a Ventriloquist

The Perhaps World

67 The Perhaps World In one I like to tell, I’m quartz and humble but still see into the leaded forest. I read the intricate fingerwork of bare cherry trees and place my ear to soil, never doubting that hum. In another, I wake inside a pile of leaves filmed and blank. I know no wind or rocks or earth. The faces of my sons and my love appear—if I could remember their names, I’d know the way. In still another world, bills titter on shelves and green bottles whisper through keyholes. The great lost opus lies on the couch scratching its belly. If I could triangulate, if I could conjure—how many worlds would it take to circumscribe and name this white sky, this sizzle of rain, this diesel in my chest? ...