Sledding, the anti-poetry

(This was written December 26, I just never got around to posting it.)

Danny and I went sledding. Not the best hill, but not bad either, and right by the lake too. The lake is white and hard all the way through–I walked out, but only a hundred yards or so.

Lots of kids on the hill, some with nice sleds and fancy toboggans, some with the crappy plastic ones like we’ve got that go a whole lot faster. It’s snowed the past five days (I think?), but the main part of it is packed, which makes it really fast. It’s like the thing about poetry being “physically as if the top of my head were taken off,” only the opposite way, where your brains sort of smack painfully into the top of your skull and don’t have anywhere else to go.

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