That Kind of Lost

Driving is a kind of oblivion, a permissible one. Jade turtle stares at me from the bureau while I write, three-legged quartz elephant goes on with its silent trumpeting. What I said was okay is not.

Other stories feel more compatible with this deepening depression, this shared watery swale, but nobody asks to hear them. What we never get around to editing is not thereby converted to a shrine to "first thought, best thought." Packing our shoes, packing our shirts.

He didn't say much at the end but in a way, he didn't say much in the middle either. Doors open and close on their own, indicative of haunts. For a little while the whole house smells like bacon.

In the morning when I feed the horses I am acutely aware of feeding the horses. Later boundaries are not so pristine. One writes ten thousand poems at least, only a handful of which can be remembered at this late - not terminal necessarily but late - juncture.

It's cold and there doesn't seem to be a lot of possibilities. One day we won't wake up and then we really will have seen our last winter, last spring, last summer, last fall. It shrinks the world, or makes it seem traversable.

Some folks thinks in terms of what is least and most but a better practice is simply to study clouds. Stop reading? When I was sixteen and still hunting, I used to wonder what it would be like to be lost in a forest, as I had never been that kind of lost.

Woe to those who stifle Emily Dickinson by citing to versions of her poems that are not faithful to her own careful formatting! Uncountable frost blossoms on the west-facing window.