Monday, June 2, 2008

The Sentence, This One

Attached to the waterlogged clipboard was a small sword, the size of child's pinky but brighter. Hefting it, one felt as if they were in a New Jersey diner circa 1956. Buddy Holly dreaming of cornfields swept with snow and the sudden emergence of fire. Narrative is less important than song. Does it help to hear something like that?

Are we now doomed or just the latest of the doomed. The royal we. For the longest time I never saw a hummingbird. Then I saw one - a green scythe, a fine creation - and then couldn't stop seeing them. So is it, as so long supposed, a question of attention. In my dream, all was lost. Yet I stood in no body's footsteps.

The canoe on its side against the rain. Where water knocked against its walls drifting south by east on the Connecticut River was the whole pain of being mute. Parts of us lost in what cameras do. Parts of us wandering old New England forest in search daily of the right context, the better context.

And so Albany does matter then as it always has. And the lake where I went so often to see you floating away as sure as Peter Pan when the sun rose. Drinking beer there was the first time I considered the word "asbestos" as incantory. And what else after that then but the sentence, this one.

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