Well, I am heir to those who made the dolmens, so there's that. Also, who said of speech we should write this down? The river flows to the sea while I run, neither of us going anywhere in particular. Rise, sun.
She wakes, sits up and I rub her back, and she lowers her head, graying hair obscuring the only profile I know better than my own. Cats yeowling downstairs, steady drip drip drip from the high-up eaves. A window is a nice thing but it wasn't always. Pancakes for lunch using leftover batter, spoon-crushed blackberries and yogurt on top.
What we cherish and what is obscured thereby. A lot happened when I was little, the world was bigger then, a living breathing story, and I only just barely made it out. Social skills are not a reflection of who a person is! The swale is a symbolic indication of depths to which we are forced by grief, to which we would not otherwise go.
Kids who read as if their life depended on it. Every day I make a collage out of what's in my mind. This stanza is dedicated to Elvis Costello. The hippies in Worthington loved me and made me realize that love was bigger than merely what Mom and Dad dictated, allowed, et cetera.
And felt mice and stuffed rabbits my daughter made when she was younger. Recipes in Greek only my mother-in-law can translate, because the words point to abstractions you only understand if you've made the dish or seen someone make it, or so I'm told.
And the concerns that are reflected in our art. My attitudes toward semicolons and Catholicism have largely tracked one another over the years, as if they are the same thing, or at least cousins.
There are baby starlings everywhere: look.
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