Luke Beesley

As a child I watched many sitcoms. I can translate the cackle of the Oystercatcher to the explosion of canned laughter or the roll of the ocean constant or the static silence before an actor spoke. Stereo has a hiss in it, as does the sea. Hear shipwreck or cuticle at rest. The wet moon overhead, overheard.

I was sitting on a park bench in winter waiting for my spine to register the chill. The sun was on the side of my face, and I could hear a soccer match. I tried to follow each player without looking at the oval; the players scattered and flickered, and I wanted to be the literature, the story – was sick of merely gusting at the side of it. I figured the first step would be to get cold, to be still, and yet activate a thought. To run my fingers.