Path 

The cruelty she administers is rote, casual, 

past risk. A clicking in the back of her head. 

As from the peak of the spine. Just off 

from where the center might be. Each step 

a reminder of her future dying. 

She never listens to music. Couldn’t 

ever find the right song. Too many notes 

in the songs around her. Too much at once 

in conflict. The ideal thing, she thinks, 

must be a single note progressively rising 

in pitch for three to eight minutes or so. 

The only songs approaching this 

are rendered electronically. Possess 

none of the resonance of wood or organ. 

She moves through an unmanaged tract 

of forest, the gray path defined

by hexagonal pavers, buttressed 

by wire fencing on each side. Keeping 

the wild out. Despite the wish to believe 

herself in some bare expanse, she is aware 

the present environment is largely fabricated. 

Sight of the pavers broadens 

an already extreme demand for precision, 

momentum, continuity. Since her youth 

she has longed to paint. Massive 

abstract compositions. Color Field. 

Endgame. She's kept this desire hidden 

from herself for as long as she was able. 

Thrust dissipates gradually, 

then all at once. The decision to stop 

counting is like finding a window 

and jumping out of it. At home she cuts 

a sheet of paper from the bolt, more long 

than wide. A scroll. Beginning to work, 

she intends to make the paper more 

neutral. Covers the whole thing with green.