Thursday, June 23, 2011
There is something in this world
Another summer, and all that dream portends. Lazy water in a ditch, polliwog-infested, one sigh from a raft on the Mississippi, bacon and a pipe, bullfrogs calling in the night. Whirlpools and eddies. A rusted can torn from its jagged lid, a cry from the netherworld. The crows are moving in. No one really knows how old I am. But someone, somewhere, remembers.
A letter arrives. I stare at it for days, unopened. Death, perhaps, or a reason to rejoice.
I make of it a fire.
I strain the ashes into my cup and drink them to the dregs.
Unread, it becomes a part of me.
Now, there is something in this world called Wisdom, but it’s nothing more than sunlight, or the sweat on my skin. My hair falls around me, my bare shoulders are its friends, twigs, seeds, pollen, dust, the swirls on my chest. That which the mirror offends, the sky defends. I’ve opened many a book that way, sung countless songs, picked up pennies by the road, recited poems inside bottle caps. I am not as old as I pretend.
We call them paragraphs. But they are blood and snot and breath. I ply them as I would any horizon, my face to the wind.
Earlier this morning: In Contemplation of My Right Thumb