There is a crack in everything

Gashing and slashing wide and black I went back to bed and asked for a crack, however small, just enough for a little light and I dreamt of Holland: stark in summer, from above, wide angle, everything fast, like a bullet, like death, and like those, in slow motion. I’m scanning for a road and find one on last winter’s ski runs. Small angle zoom in on three men on skiis falling, still in slow mo —- air air air, pulled inexorably by earth’s grav(e)ity. The middle man is caught and on his sides the other two try in their way to set him free, like a bird on L. Cohen’s wire.

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