Friday, May 30, 2008

Arrive, Deliver Us, Here

In this world - the way it is - the way I am in it - what is forbidden - too little. The royal "we." Punctuation is a way of scoring a sentence. Or setting the pace. Now I am thinking of Chesterfield, the dip at Route 143 where I used to canoe with my father, and now look for goslings where the parent geese are like sentinels in the flooded grass.

I'd believe you more if you grew lettuce from seeds.

The stack of unread books grows higher and higher. People mistake it for driftwood but no. On the shelf, where the illustrated Grimms was, a gap. "Make for it, as fast as you can." Where I was happiest, it was coldest, and the dream of you beside me was like some burning benevolent cancer.

An old man, I watch one foot follow the other like albino ants in strictest moonlight. Indulgence is love, one kind anyway, so please, get over it. Yet going there meant acknowledging again a certain loneliness, a certain dissatisfaction. You could hear the fox gnawing its own leg, having a relationship to pain that was otherwise unimaginable. You want proof, you want utter, then have another drink.

We were left with clothes hangers, old poems. It was a visit I wasn't supposed to make but what else could I do given word of you. Is it true then that in the end all poems - all sentences - eventually arrive, deliver us. Here where again I can feel us on that road, still.

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