Killarney Clary El Paso. Eleventh floor of the hotel in a dust storm with eight hundred miles of interstate ten vibrating behind my eyes. Two nights ago there were two of us. East of Redlands, I was away, and couldn't remember or predict. There spun the windmill blades defiantly, making use.I hear grains of grit tick against the glass and a howl that won't let up. No time to inhale. On point, I might fall cynical, fall sentimental; they are the same. I want you to stand in front of me and be other. The wall of umber air thins for a span and the city sharpens. I figure as I watch the depot sign dim and clear without pattern the number of interruptions, the shortest distance.
Killarney Clary is the author of By Common Salt (Oberlin College Press, 1996), Who Whispered Near Me (Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1989) and By Me, By Any, Can and Can't Be Done (Greenhouse Review Press, 1980).
