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Lawnmowers and birdnoise again.
The flap of pillow cases drying on the line.
Her small-voiced dictation:
"The raven things all laugh at my weak nature."
She thinks back:
was it more like acid rain or angelic descent? Who pushed?
Careful marginalia:
"There’s no such thing as
how could you."
She dreams of unbreakable slowness:
the shoes won’t give, the legs disband.
On her palm, penned in blue,
"Whoever can lift this — it’s yours."
She thinks back:
when did the bending begin?
Careful articulation on answering machine:
"Sun fills me over
with guilt for the darkness
I carry. So sorry I’m not in,
please leave notice."
She learns no such thing as
"what that means."
Her postcard from Rome:
"The lionization of time over matter is out-of-hand."
Dog and babies get walked.
Flipflops and rough knees click past.
She thinks back:
What was the first thing
seen burning? |
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| August 22, 2003 |
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