Tuesday, September 20, 2011

Unwittingly Out Of Heaven

At the ankles, a last mosquito. A slip of cloud - what Topper called mare's tails - trailing away, tossed to the west, a delicate mallow not unlike the sky at the end of a painful August. Tea splashing in the garden, moths withered where the compost is so dry you could call it blonde. Taped voices from the kitchen, a familiar canon, the delicate strain of finding oneself. There is no leaving, you see.

That which has many names has many uses. We pulled a table closer to the scrub pine and watched hawks circle in the distance, as if stitching the sky where God feared another batch of angels might topple unwittingly out of Heaven. The bed creaked and the salt smell of the sea was everywhere. Later, walking quietly out back where the roses were gigantic from swallowing so much moonlight, I remembered old loves, old promises and wondered again at how real time seems to seem. It was - as they say in those fine books we used to read and promptly forget - the wine talking.

One searches for the one clear thing, doesn't one? In the sense that a conversation is not a boundary, it is also not a binding. The eighties were not bad but then following the seventies would put any decade to shame. My bramble is my secret lover. One sits a long time on breath's tenuous fulcrum only to discover that there is no arrival.

They call it something else in southern France. I remember holding hands near the lake, later putting my ear to empty bottles and sensing the whole crazy nothingness that was the future. A swampy area, a blowing candle. The notes spoke to me from where they rested in the dumpster, the red and blue of the air mail envelopes festive amidst the waste of the otherwise poor. You just can't stop hoping, can you?

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