avec la brume du matin on ne voit plus rien,
ni les moules, ni la mer, ni le continent
there is the closeness of this fog
then the far-ness of everything else
i go with no small purpose
to the fig tree in the yard
every day it replenishes and
i return, hands and pockets full
the canary in the pine tree
knows only one note
even here i cannot escape narrative.
Wednesday, August 11
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1 comment:
how funny -- i read this for the first time exactly 24 hours ago, written down on paper. (the first mail for a new address! how lovely. second was my returned damage deposit.)
everything else on the first page is a surprise, it's all new news of the near past. i'll read slowly, but i'm so glad you've been posting!
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