A thousand twangling instruments
Susan Grimm
          
Like a river of jelly, we move slow. No crisp happy slap of water or burbling water reef.
Just the slow and the shore. This is the kind of nature I do not like. No garden path or pair
of shears in my hand.

My hand like a jelly puppet. Like a stump without twig or leaf. Jelly slow. But I can't
catch a branch or a root. Just one to hold onto. To feel down its word meaning to truth.

Inside it's the same. Neurons throwing their hands in the air. Jelly cloud in my sky.

A hundred doors slammed closed—a noise stuttering through the blood. Some kind of
hose at the temple tethering me to the floor while the room or my head rolls like a bad
stomach.

If there was a rope. And then her on the shore jogging along. Not that slow. Something
to hold onto.