the ghosts of provo

I met a man the other day that I couldn't talk to. I couldn't even see the man, but there he was in the hollow tree on the side of the road, and as I rode my bike past him he came to my side. I wasn't interested in talking with him. I wasn't interested in waking up. I was stuck within myself, so far within my flesh that his subtle tapping on my should was not palpable. I wanted to find a way to feel him. I wanted to badly to feel his touch, to notice that he was there, but I was so stuck inside myself, so engrossed with the basic mechanical motion of pedaling my bike that all I could feel was fire being sapped out of my face and ankles by the cold february wind. he gave up after a short time and retreated back to his side of the road, wishing that he could be engrossed in some flesh, that someone would hear the rattle in his throat, that there would be someone worth listening and speaking to.