Your absense takes shape slowly from the clear air.
Like a translator who speaks no language,
like the dog you wanted, like some damned butler,
it heels and hovers. It is stale and damp,
well groomed and mannered. More and more,
it coughs there at my elbow. Is this
what haunt means -- slow pressing,
thickening shadow? The facts catch up with me
softly, softly, numbing like the snow.
The facts, I say, though there's really only one --
what more is there to know?
_____________
This one, not so good. My first negative experience with NaPoWriMo. My instincts told me to let this one lie awhile. Not press to finish it. I'm afraid the pressure may have warped it. Without NaPo, without pressure, it might have turned out better. On the other hand, without NaPo, I might not have written it at all.
This metaphor, though, is a killer: "death is a translator that speaks no language."
I grew up under tansmitters that carry mega billions of kilowat hours of electricity from the dams in SD along the Missouri River to points south and east.
It hums. It raises the hair on your arms. It ruins radio signals with static. Storms with wind and ice bring it down. So can a driver who hits a pole. Then it becomes dark and cold.
Just food to nourish your thoughts about your metaphor which is raises the hair on my arms.
The electricty moves from point to point depending on the current of the Missouri River, and the man made generators.