Thesis and occlusion, sown in a cloister of glass. Fixating
our attention on a single square foot of poured concrete
we visualized a cake dome on the back of a flatbed truck.
I can feel it. I’m in there. Every decision means less me.

An extended period of doubt. Soon, disquiet. I pick up
the cat, counting out the zeroes, then dial the number 
for Information again. Flamenco was developed in a jar.
I pass myself on a side street, trying to knit a brick. I’m 

not me anymore. Airborne, a tapestry of sound. We’re 
in an orchard, egg whites are everywhere, and I realize
how time bends in Cairo. At a campground just outside 
of Gettysburg a family from Barstow sleeps in a rented

Winnebago dreaming of nothing but the encroachment 
of sand. It’s Monday. I was born on a Monday. I cover
the mirror and I start to divide by three, a vacuum tube
sitting on the dais. She holds it over her head, and rises.   

Jeffrey Little | This is the Sound of a Single Bone Finished Breaking
Contents | Mudlark No. 77 (2024)