Sunday, June 22, 2008

Cigarettes Before Dawn

Poults weaving in and out. Asleep while Chrisoula walked through clover, Queen Anne's Lace, tangled blue of Forget-Me-Nots. Stunned as always by wild bouquets. And gifts, always gifts. His voice whispering was felt as an order. The house smelled the way Joe's trailer smelled. Sausages, wet dogs, laundry, cigarettes. Before dawn we pulled the blanket tighter and tried again to sleep. Outside a cat yowled. We woke to fog layered everywhere. It's just how it is, that's all.

I'm bored by the ongoing conversation about form. Can we settle and if not must we always be so circumspect. It was comfortable, after all, the way the sentences predicted and were predicated upon one another. They made a story to fall asleep by. It was all a fable and remained possible.

The "L" sounds were never lost. Later we'll visit the land and then what. One creates limits as a way of bounding a certain energy, hopefully productively. The result an investment in color, also rhythm.

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