The first word. On top of a cathedral. Wind barking. The cathedral is a statue. The cathedral is blue under a blue sky. This word is a spiral. Singing is not invented yet. Tongues are lapping. You are still a student. I am old with the park that was bombed. The cathedral that the park climbs. Grass as a letter. Mountain lions on the back. pumas are mountain lions are cougars, you know. The cemetery at the bottom of the cape where all of the birthdays are known lies. A still born air sinks into the ground, cold and heavy. Can it force itself into where the bodies sit? Breath on the neck bone. Flakes of indifference. I am letting go because I am trying. I roll down the hill of the cathedral. Birds are standing on the spire, and starting over. It all falls down on itself before you’re over. over here. Lying on waiting. These graves get hard thinking about sinking into the crotch beneath the earth of the skeletons. We have sex like we are made of wood. Wet in the coming rain. The future makes me hungry. I am smiling. The top of the world has been gone for years because we are living in Antiquity. We haven’t known a slide since before we could breath words. A park is made sane. Holding hands with the grass. The cathedral has a wall of holes and I put my penis in all of them. This life. Hunger rings more miles away than what can be seen. Safety in the cathedral. What it is like to explore your own home. Under our teeth. A Stark. Filling these shoes up with time. Taking them for a walk. It is getting warmer by the day. Our feet burning up the hill. Not much of any time behind. The cathedral, and then some, at the top.
— Nicholas Wilder Forman is a writer from Los Angeles. Their work has appeared in Hobart, Soft Union, Expat Press, Maudlin House, Charm School Magazine, and more. You can find them on Instagram @nickwforman.