Pillars growing fruit hint the psalms of song, a carol in rhyme coming to me never to save me from lacquered faces. Streams stop flowing beneath my feet in the summer, and grapes are picked and ready to eat; they need no washing to make them pure. Lack masters, like me perhaps, use the sapplings for wood and then feel bad for not being better at identifying the sounds coming from nowhere. I wonder about so many things and it seems that I shouldn't. Years make one wise it is presumed, or it is expected. The actions and reactions, that goddamned thing called existence, are supposed to reach one's grasp, show itself; I should be smarter if that's possible, if that's the case. Wise time should have already arrived for me. Maybe it has and I simply have misplaced it.

        I see so many drawing pictures every day, they come easily for me. Occasionally I do not want it. I wish it to go away quickly so I won't lie in bed awake all night.

        Those pillars. Looking solid. Curtains unveil them to the others gathered around to look at triumphant mastery. A solid pillar.

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RIVER BED   91