There’s a certain puppet-like breath taken in with a lead center wooden stick. A string tied to a finger. Things prop in from unexpected places, then another, and another till piled in a glittery heap on the table. With an indescribable expression, her arm clumsily lifts that utensil to dig in.
Given representatives hit like waves on a web, or a song plucked from a forest. Before, a little sliver held between the lips dropped no metaphor, for example, carved from an entire limb. Synonymous meaning in things, objectively seen, into being. She finds it hard to believe they wouldn’t read the deeper reach.
It’s a secret, thing, speaking out from where it was tossed and found.