Friday, August 12, 2011

Bricks That Hide The Light

Serpentine memory or at least its equivalent. What would I do without Dante, the steam rising off scrambled eggs and you talking by the window about Moby Dick? I mowed a corner of the yard that's usually left alone. Grace is not difference.

Grievances are like bricks that hide the light. A glass of water topples and a precious book is drenched and the afternoon becomes an exercise in salvation. More chess moves, please. The smell of hay, vulnerable mice. All walls are constructed and you are a demolitions expert as well.

What we're saying is, there's a relationship between sentences and paragraphs. The stairway goes up, not down. Romanian folk dances and charts that say your foot goes here not there. Observe the grizzle, meditate on bluets. The butterfly in the window box is neither a message nor a sign but that doesn't mean you can't read it.

All waiting assumes ancestry. We need to eat which means we need to remember where the food is. You can fall on your face and call it ballet and who hasn't? Simply know that God is a good idea. A kiss that was groomed by north now offered accordingly west.

No comments:

Post a Comment