Wheel sits in the small wood by the north wall for ten days and nights.
At the end of the first day, he swallows a sip of water and says: “My mother was there.”
As the second day fades, he says: “There was a bright light.”
On the third day, he takes a bite of bread: “The most selfish thing you can do is tell people what they want to hear.”
“Art is how we talk to the gods”: a benediction for the fourth day.
“We were young again,” he mumbles at the close of the fifth.
On the sixth day, at dusk, he stands and shouts: “I prefer poetry to scripture.” Broken-hearted, a crow sings in the Redbuds.
On the seventh he can barely sit up. “It was you, but it wasn’t you.”
Day eight: “Remember that time at the lake?”
On the ninth day he makes no sound.
On the final day, as the thief moon flees: “It all seemed so real.”