OLIVER DE LA PAZ
And in the outer world, the first, something smooth and wet. An X
skims across the tops of the crests in a succession of skips. The longest
holds its space in the air, pauses, then descends into what is a cool sleep.
X and all the faces of backlit animals gaze downward at you. Their curious engulfed silhouettes. A spasm of radio and the accident of understanding
what it means to be X. What it means to be held and kissed and gibbered to
as though you were something cast away and suddenly, miraculously, returned.