We have tried. And the walls of the rooms in this house have tried. And the windows with their many views, green leaves in one season, gold fronds in another, did their best to display the children playing soccer in the back yard as mementos, keepsakes, well-framed photographs. Figurines. The small animals and the ghosts of previous small animals tried. The feet tried to find music, the body to brim with it, the hand bringing the fork to the lips tried to help the head imagine sustenance as a cube of some earth-grown thing that enters the mouth.
If only that were sustenance.
We have tried. And the walls of the rooms in this house have laughed. They have wanted to x-ray themselves. And the windows with their many views, sophomoric pleasure in one season, wrathful desire in another, betrayed the garden. The small animals and the ghosts of previous small animals took sides and bit ankles. The feet that could not find music now dance in the darkest basement there is, expertly, savagely, a tango anyone dangerous would love to watch. And the hand that fed the cube-brought- forth-of-earth to the mouth is tracing a nipple with an ice cube. For the soul is not a bicycle kickstand. As much as we wish.