- Vol. 05
- Chapter 10
It is measurably damaging to confess —
I left my prints in the woods.
I am wearing the city, I am wearing the house, I am wearing the dog, I am wearing my drive-through coffee mug.
I am late.
I confess that, too.
I ride my bicycle to work. I walk to work. I drive to work. I am driven, one way or the other, to work.
I am my Adam’s apple.
I have to confess — there are articles of clothing in the woods. Small piles of them between glacial boulders, hung in oak and pine trees; edging streams and trickles of streams. They coagulate sometimes as mossy bundles. They belong to the woods.
I must confess — I am wearing some of these articles of clothing now. They fit like a charm. They support my work.
They support the city and its work. They support walls with graffiti and tall buildings with construction workers and scaffolding. Urban sewer systems and underground infrastructure. Transit systems. Street lunches.
They belong to the woods. I confess I have been to the woods.
I left my prints there.