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.