what image those threads project? Arts & leisure—80 bucks! As quiet as my
contentment is the voice at my shoulder: make it over. Perhaps not a total
from-the-ground-up rehab, perhaps only a few cosmetic touches
would have an earth-shaking impact, in this instance. It’s what you can do that matters
more than the whole picture, but the older we grow, the more unused to the idea of dying—
and I’m sorry I brought the subject up—we become. We are set in our ways. The breath
of autumn is vast again, we see vague but kind-hearted auguries
in it, then forget. It’s the way our silhouette gets projected on invisible nature
that seduces one to come down from the top of the leaf-pile. By then it’s dark,
of course. One’s sedan’s not on schedule, and the rear-view mirror is brittle, too
polished to shine, just visible enough to see the hairs
on one’s face by. Is it going to cripple
our image of our self-esteem? Where were we in the dark? Can you see it? Positive?
Not so nice now , as the deep cranberry-colored berries linger
on the trees though shriveled and cold—surely not till summer? But that’s
ages away and I have to finish my story, and character
is what I forgot to add. O but it will change
the negative nature of it, put in something we don’t need all right,
gigantic though it be. Still, and though the leaves are only threaded on the branches now,
someone has to look after it. I never had a servant. Always, I was accustomed
to doing my own cleaning, even as others were not. Heck, what creeps
are these? And I forgot the way back, forgot the back of the story,
perhaps for the better, since I was refreshed and could remember nothing,
nothing of what happened so long ago, on a certain evening
in July. We called across
shallow lagoons to each other; it seemed to help. Now to expunge
the revenge-motif, and get it all right for once. Life is an embroidery-frame, and what you put
into it gets left there, there are so many kinds of designs, literally millions of them
and the combinations of these—well. So perhaps what happened at Nuremberg in 1658 is
of some importance to me, but surely
the burden of proof doesn’t rest on you. It’s all I can do
for you baby now that I have to get going, but think
of the diminishing tiers of clouds clustered to the ever-more-distant horizon: do you want
our heritage? Or should you invest in something? And as one tendril
after another unclasps, what more is there to say? I can see you
in the ski-picture, as dazed and clean as in the old days behind the laundry,
and yet each word of what we said to each other matters, pulls, I don’t know, away
like a sheet from the substance, and what are you going to get after that?
What me, huh?
I wish I could hear birdsong in those old days,
you know, the kind there used to be. It seemed every thorn was alight.
Here there is nowhere near the expansive atmosphere
we imagine we miss. Only a sullen waiter
in a soiled white jacket who slams down the coffee cups in front of you and then walks away.
I was told about it on a Sunday. By Monday the dogs were back, fighting over some used
excrement, half in the water. Wow. What a dumb thing. Only I hear he used to go behind
the other building, and no one knew him. But he can’t say for sure. It’s like a chicken.
I’m sure Babs remembers the time of the arguments we used to go through.
That’s ancient history now, though. And, like history, it has a definite interest,
like Thebes. Curiously I was just talking
about it professor, to get it not quite wrong again, and you came up and asked me
how my theorem was and I blurted out the truth. It’s all okay. It’s not going to be divided,
not divided up among several participants anyway.
It was decided to proceed another way
while I was out of the room.
The startling freshness of it blinkered me
opposing me to many angles of lights
that fell before the door frame. A weathered quince
asked to be
contentment is the voice at my shoulder: make it over. Perhaps not a total
from-the-ground-up rehab, perhaps only a few cosmetic touches
would have an earth-shaking impact, in this instance. It’s what you can do that matters
more than the whole picture, but the older we grow, the more unused to the idea of dying—
and I’m sorry I brought the subject up—we become. We are set in our ways. The breath
of autumn is vast again, we see vague but kind-hearted auguries
in it, then forget. It’s the way our silhouette gets projected on invisible nature
that seduces one to come down from the top of the leaf-pile. By then it’s dark,
of course. One’s sedan’s not on schedule, and the rear-view mirror is brittle, too
polished to shine, just visible enough to see the hairs
on one’s face by. Is it going to cripple
our image of our self-esteem? Where were we in the dark? Can you see it? Positive?
Not so nice now , as the deep cranberry-colored berries linger
on the trees though shriveled and cold—surely not till summer? But that’s
ages away and I have to finish my story, and character
is what I forgot to add. O but it will change
the negative nature of it, put in something we don’t need all right,
gigantic though it be. Still, and though the leaves are only threaded on the branches now,
someone has to look after it. I never had a servant. Always, I was accustomed
to doing my own cleaning, even as others were not. Heck, what creeps
are these? And I forgot the way back, forgot the back of the story,
perhaps for the better, since I was refreshed and could remember nothing,
nothing of what happened so long ago, on a certain evening
in July. We called across
shallow lagoons to each other; it seemed to help. Now to expunge
the revenge-motif, and get it all right for once. Life is an embroidery-frame, and what you put
into it gets left there, there are so many kinds of designs, literally millions of them
and the combinations of these—well. So perhaps what happened at Nuremberg in 1658 is
of some importance to me, but surely
the burden of proof doesn’t rest on you. It’s all I can do
for you baby now that I have to get going, but think
of the diminishing tiers of clouds clustered to the ever-more-distant horizon: do you want
our heritage? Or should you invest in something? And as one tendril
after another unclasps, what more is there to say? I can see you
in the ski-picture, as dazed and clean as in the old days behind the laundry,
and yet each word of what we said to each other matters, pulls, I don’t know, away
like a sheet from the substance, and what are you going to get after that?
What me, huh?
I wish I could hear birdsong in those old days,
you know, the kind there used to be. It seemed every thorn was alight.
Here there is nowhere near the expansive atmosphere
we imagine we miss. Only a sullen waiter
in a soiled white jacket who slams down the coffee cups in front of you and then walks away.
I was told about it on a Sunday. By Monday the dogs were back, fighting over some used
excrement, half in the water. Wow. What a dumb thing. Only I hear he used to go behind
the other building, and no one knew him. But he can’t say for sure. It’s like a chicken.
I’m sure Babs remembers the time of the arguments we used to go through.
That’s ancient history now, though. And, like history, it has a definite interest,
like Thebes. Curiously I was just talking
about it professor, to get it not quite wrong again, and you came up and asked me
how my theorem was and I blurted out the truth. It’s all okay. It’s not going to be divided,
not divided up among several participants anyway.
It was decided to proceed another way
while I was out of the room.
The startling freshness of it blinkered me
opposing me to many angles of lights
that fell before the door frame. A weathered quince
asked to be
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