Faulkner

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I wish I could show you the source of my amusement but I

can’t it was delivered in an ice box three hundred million years

ago and it has been there since anticipating time or the mind

that will discover time on the shores of some mossy

simultaneously existing/non-existing primordial earth It sits

there silent and square totally emotionless to the tiny grubs and

centipedes that crawl over its smooth porcelain skin Totally

inert but inside it is something that will outlast the shores and

water even the sun and myriad furry life forms that will bump

and crawl their way to the edge of their individual eternities It

is there denting the sand silent unmoved not feeling hunger

because hunger isn’t yet thought of nothing there to think it not

happy because happiness is still unboiled stagnant and cold as

unreal as the possessions and human bodies that will

someday give it birth

 

from The Dryland Fish, 2003