Spring asphalt, loose sky. A little disk in the pocket no bigger 

than a palm maybe. Something like tin cans and string but the 

result is bright refusal, flanked and bluish. 

 

You can stare at a thing so hard you don’t see it anymore. Just a 

chromey wash, gloating around the edges of language, parhelic. 

 

When he felt the blankness coming, he’d try to approach it obliquely - 

to sneak up and clinch it right at the last moment. He’d watch its 

familiar shape warily as he meandered through a sentence, but

always at the crucial instant it would flash its piercing lack and he’d 

just stand there gaping.

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