Saturday, June 5, 2021

The Soft Green of the World

I don't remember the full moon. Watering the onions at dusk facing east, the broccoli and cauliflower facing west. Occluded by the one who is in my thoughts always? Strawberry plants glisten in faint light of after midnight, what feels like smiles. Is it wrong to dislike Eric Clapton? When I wander I'm happy, but when I'm happy I want to be still. Roger Penrose essays, certain intellectual spirals. Pulling weeds from a shaded flower bed, discussing with Fionnghuala what to do with the excess ferns all over the place. Trouble is near, I can sense it. Yet at dawn I lay down in damp clover, ear to the soft green of the world, hear Ireland whispering through rocks and deep seas, and one or two women I will not forget, even in death. So it's cosmos then? The neighbors are drinking daiquiris, cheerfully drunk, their voices like dogs unexpectedly let off their leashes. Just how happy are we allowed to be? You hold my hand in your rough own, you revisit old hurts and agreements, what is marriage when there was no wedding and so forth. A nexus proposed by an image just now coming into view. I am a different kind of postulant, pages of text upon pages of text, a corner of the library nobody visits, I am a window with a light all its own.

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