for madison-woods’ Friday Fictioneers


If he’s bringing messages, they cut both ways, rather than thread between or stitch together.  Fleet and agile in both worlds, and neither.  They call him “the Translator,” a metaphor embodied.  He melodies one thing and harmonies another.  “Of two minds” they say of the quicksilver poet with a two-sided brain.  No one knows how he listens, but it’s clear his flight is circular.

It’s been asked if he ever stops for love, ever rests his fluid motion.  There’s never been a verdict.  First one thing, and then another.  His reaching out, a curling in.  His language an escaping capture.

N Filbert 2012