Even a Glacier is a Rolling Thing A drumlin is a topographic canker, pulse in my temple—starts with the uphill thought, with my calves so long and taut my flat-footed friend could fit his feet to the backs of them. We are always caught mid-shuffle, mid-spill, two dominoes shoved back from the time- lapse of real time, and sometimes to wrestle is to follow or to wish the lumber and wax of your opponent down upon you. Beneath him, you are most local, most fixed, the gymnasium's halogens buzzing above— sterile thrum that makes ruddier the ruddy of your wimpy breath, your pinned wrists. You are, after all, the emerging middle of some emerging thing and so why not middle school, with its slough and rut and shove and stammer, its brutal cryptograms scrawled on pheromones, and the private patterns only you can see floating in linoleum. And the boy, after all, is your friend, is a boy, is a body, as opposed to your tongue. All day you've had the scant feeling that the pillow was slipping its case, that this skin was not your forever skin. Math drifted with instructions like underwater garble, gregarious equations clicking on the board while the tree out the window consumed you. Along its trunk hung pale cicada shells. You suspected the ghosts were happier elsewhere, or else delirious in the grass from a shortness of breath, where they too felt the weight of the breeding.