Thursday, August 21, 2008

Stumbling On The Word Emily

What way was a new way and what was yesterday. Familial rage billows a deep red. She saw him not handsomely but more akin to raw bacon. The notes were white stones, bread crumbs, and very much so. And yet given a chance, he returned to the familiar forest, he did and with his own sprouts.

Oh, glade - let's use that word. The mug broke, the song embraced a cascading reverence of thereafter. We went to the river, prayed, and saw nothing but an evanescent pink oddly reminiscent of war in the nineteenth century. Found poetry - is there any other kind? Clipped and mimeographed ode to a scissors.

Ignored in favor of nightfall. The last of the newts was a deep orange like pumpkins. We won't - we can't - attend the party less than one mile away. A dog died on the road or the grief the air bounded had that wild pained inflection. I keep stumbling on the word Emily.

The grass with its diamond revelation, the bible suddenly flexible. The priest walked up the driveway with his head down, thinking no doubt of Poland. An abundance of cucumbers, kale, and old Cary Grant movies. The harpist wore glasses, played badly and raised money for the S.P.C.A. He wrote and the words - the sentences they called - did not let him down as always.

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