Autumn Journal

It has been unusually warm. The thigh rubbing music of insectivore prophets has continued deep into October. I write in my journal: now I can shed the flesh of my animal soul. Later I draw a doodle of a hanging man. In the park an old woman in a brown coat. Her hair is sparse. When she speaks twigs rattle in her mouth. She asks “Have you seen my pretty father?” What she said to me (the sound of it), beats against my breast like the blows of a child's fist.