On The Write Path

Combustion curry

Combustion curry

I watch out for fake steps, avoid children being children, the branch that reaches out to stab. I grab onto every rail.

I look at the combustion curry, take a video of it boiling, bubbling. I do not touch. No more than the steam that burbles from the vent, the mud that roils the pools that look so innocent: blue, white, red. I'm wise to them. I gaze from afar. I put my nose above the curry, breathe in and wait. If I'm patient I won't burn my day away. If I'm careful when I put one foot in front of the other... I can cross this bridge.

© Kåre Enga 29.march.2015

On unsent postcard from Beppu, Japan. 29.march.2015

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