(Where neither photography nor sketching were allowed)
I.
The freighted thud of a rock hitting an ice sheeted pond. No crack. White shavings lay in the
sundry mud and leaves thrown off the rock at impact. The rock will stay all winter on the surface
and slide casually down into the deep with the melt.
II.
A fingerprint on the coffee cup. The transferred warmth from the ceramic to the hand will, in the
circle of grace, be easy to carry. Also, in the circle of grace, heavy.
III.
Black ocean waves slap every key on the keyboard on the typewriter like an eager surrealist.
IV.
Nouns – Dr. Pepper bottle, Chevrolet dually, a gate chain, alfalfa, Stetson cologne, crank case
grease, and diesel – desiccate under a middle-aged sun. When they are thin and dry enough, the
rain will wash them into a long autumn stain on the driveway.
V.
Cypresses, lank leaning out from towers of rock, yawn fans of leaves. These mountains, perched
as always, offer the sum of another life.
VI.
The man had two extra holes in his body. One hole in his chest had a cylindrical shape, as though
a beer can had been forcefully punched in bloodlessly and pulled out. The other was similar but a
little wider, an upright vase driven right into the left shoulder. Decaying flowers in blue and
brown and pink could be placed inside.
VII.
A single, tiny cataclysm in an immense space.
Ed Schad is a writer and art curator living in Los Angeles. He has published widely, including in the L.A. Review of Books, The Brooklyn Rail, The Blue-Collar Review, Rue Scribe, The Broken Teacup, The Blue Moon Review, The Nonconformist, and Frieze. His first collection of poetry, Letters Apart, was published by Dopplehouse Press in 2023.