Curt & Curt

I know so little. There was a door in my house growing up
on the second floor, that could be seen from the outside. It
stood, without a floor to meet it, white and with a glass
doorknob. But, I could not find the door from the inside. It
must have been covered by drywall. At dinner, no one ever
mentioned the door, but I'm sure it was on someone's mind
during some part of the day. Sometimes, I could see the sun's
reflection in the glass doorknob from a distance. Once,
I thought I saw it from a window in prison, and called out
Home.

&

I know so little too. Sometimes, I think I understand many
things, but time is relentless and I will not know the things
to know about soon. Even the things I do not know about
move forward further than I do.

&

My mother's brother, my uncle, once hit a calf. He left it by
the side of the road. But he traveled this road often and
witnessed the maggots devouring the calf. The calf's muscles
exposed to sun. The bones, dry and brittle, sighing into
nothingness. Then, he said, he saw the calf in his driveway,
or in the bathtub, waiting. He saw the calf in his bed, beneath
the sheets. He saw the calf in department store fitting
rooms. In his car. In the booth across from his. In his closet.
In his hospital bed. On the ceiling, grazing on light bulbs and
smoke detectors. Then, he shot himself in the head.

&

I know so little about you and you so little about me. A
woman I knew, told me to listen carefully in order to
know. No one listens carefully. Listen, if you listened
carefully, you would know in which direction I had gone
and why. This woman fed me Brazil nuts and fruit that
smelled like rotting. She had many things to say, I could
tell because her mouth was fixed in a frown. Sadness,
she said, was having to tell too many stories to too many
deaf ears.

&

If you are always here, who is there moving as you do?