From the anthology, Complaining to the Clock, a work in progress.
On A White Stool You know there is no turning around, no pausing in any way, because the path to the woods, where the sky demons make their homes, has been flooded by the blue rivers there, which flow by like glaciers on fire, with life clinging to the whims of God almighty, we first saw the downcast stares of fear, made while sitting straight-backed on a white stool, your troth of insanity, your refusal to bend or talk, but it keeps going forward, this life, that never ceases to teach, never decides to open the windows when the blustery news reaches forth from the darkest place downstairs beneath the dry rot.
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