Just Right Before Unknown
by Jason Nelson
This place is forbidden. The fields are laced with simple juices,
known within or without. Trees crack fifth and fourth from directions the
wind can’t fear. I’m digging where the trees have fallen. It’s been said,
in thick, barbarous tones, that the rocks in this place are hollow. Once
broken open they leap, not fast but high, into the branches with a slightly
melodious hissing sound. And when this sound stops the light that is left
from the sun twists and bends to form questions or answers depending on the
pressure. The only problem, making all other problems unimportant, is
treachery loves the trees. Leaves from their branches fall into the vowels
of each question and consonant of each answer. It’s not that the leaves can
read, but just that the sun can’t spell.
Head On: “Either The End or The Beginning”
