Prologue 

1.

My small hour of creation

occurred nearing 2:25 a.m.

on a Tuesday that blurred

into Wednesday.  These days

have other names for giants,

as do the hours.  Keep in

mind therefore that my birthday

is transient, forgettable,

and consistently inaccurate.

2.

I was made from the skin,

nail and hair of a giant’s

rough and earth-worked hand.

This accounts for the echoes

of my steps, the sharp cuts

of my shoulders, and eyes

that expect to see landscapes

that are broader, deeper,

and wear different colors.

3.

I never break bones, feel

needleaches or insomnia,

though I suffer from dry feet,

a chronically parched throat

and a wanderer’s fever that

shows in the red of my cheeks.

My stories go far too long

and at Mass I cross myself

the wrong way to account

for a sense of false north

between muscle and bone.

4.

I am writing a chronicle

of my historyless life.

I am the first and last

of my kind—mine is a

distinct look, the glass

and iron of mountains.

I cannot help that I am

always cold, and without

fear of the night.  I wait

to see what could take

my life.  I wait to see

what will make me next.