Saturday, July 31, 2010

Always Looking Backwards

The top half of the basement window is lit by the rising sun, while the bottom half is shrouded with thick grass, and what S. used to call "fairy bedding." Celestial gentleness, the world a thought in the mind of God. Mine, too.

Wordless. Less words. But then how would we know what silence means?

Smart ass. You and your brokering intelligence, always chewing at the world as if it matters. And tangled television antennae wire shredded by the lawn mower which hardly works anyway.

This is not a commodity but I do want some money, an amount to be determined later. We are focused too much on hypocrisy as a rationale for ignoring otherwise good arguments. I am not another for example.

Would a mouse pass through just because I want one to for the poem? Or a frail wren in search of stray seeds? Is my heart going to fail today instead of tomorrow and will I know in advance to say goodbye?

Stop sequencing time (she wrote) to which I responded - quite pleasantly I might add - okay fine but explain to me then photographs please. Big ideas go undigested. Washing the bureau, talking about our dead pets, all in a relaxed way, is a good memory, one that we made worth making.

The nineteenth line inevitably comes as both a relief and a temptation. The twentieth meanwhile is almost always looking backwards.

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