I see it now in Obie, see him sit propped on the dock in the afternoon sun, unaware of being observed, yet working his mouth tirelessly, trying to gum the billowy cumuli that tether themselves over the lake like dirigibles.
Or see him stuck like a lamprey to the beach ball on the cottage carpet, sucking it to him with the same force that implodes his plastic bottles and turns their nipples to flattened tongues the color of mucilage. Silly faced and happy, his moon skull eclipsed by the segmented, circus colored world, chasing after it on all fours each time it skids away, until the thing shines silver with his spittle.
I know too late the truth you spoke.