I was standing in our sixth floor hotel room window watching cars silently move below me in a famous city we were visiting. Again it occurred to me that there are all these things & places that are said to exist & events that are said to exist, but how can they exist unless I experience them myself. The old problem: the hackneyed wooden wagon that wanders the streets of the mind calling for dead cinder filled ash boxes & vials of gathered pollen & stamens for cures. The herbivores congested with swarms of teeth. The talk of it all amongst the neophytes, the glib news subscribers. The unemployed instrument tuners.
What a collection of wine-stained tapestries.
Beauty has not died of sweat or starvation.
I suppose the series of rather inarticulate notes I pounded out upon the piano in the church as a child were not composed measures but a song still. I welcome sleep by thinking “oh so long ago, so long ago.” What in the world that won’t affect my dreams I will. Attending the national pastime with parasols & Russian novels. Falsettoed ceilings of azure. Anything brought back from ruin. The first cup I shattered whole again. The cup of my friend’s childhood. The anniversary of your voice. You, the last word, you.