On the flat surface are the lit shadows of two long leg bones, one not quite long enough, a bit twisted, a bit tentative, searching for its remainder; the left foot points out toward the X-ray’s edge as if it is trying to leap away from the body, although at second glance it looks snuggled up close to the chest as if it never wants to leave. One limb looks strong, ready to walk, kick, and fight. The other, smaller one seems brighter, a warning. Turn the globe upside down and the snow keeps falling. The bones glow. (12-13)
On the cobblestoned bridge over looking the canal were the timbres of my boots, slowly weaving out and around the park bench where ice and snow had fallen. However bitter, solemn, and gloriously quiet the night was, my brain made up for the lull of the night by restlessly rethinking about the mountain of homework that awaited me later that evening. My body paused at a particular bench in front of a familiar café. The lantern’s copper hue illuminated onto the white blanket that submerged my feet. My hand reached inside my coat, searching for the crumpled paper. It was always there, like a friend that never left my side. It trembled in my hand, while the other, hoisted high in the air, caught the fine feeble flurries that were so cold against my skin. Hold them there and a stream trickles into my sleeve. Let them fall and the words are washed away.