Wednesday, November 5, 2008

That Kind Of Longing

The convergence hither and yon was all anybody talked about. In those days you could take fifteen minutes to eat an apple, seeds and all. The baby woke up on her lap faced with the sun.

Together we walked the field looking for pheasants talking about commas. Your headline is my nuance. The corner of the unlit room beckoned in the manner of obsession.

The formidable task had no name, but everybody had contemplated it at least once in their lives. A car, a hankering to get out and explore, an over-full picnic basket. It's getting better all the time buttercup.

Your salt is my fat content. He wrote, again, minimally punctuating. Have I told you yet about the pheasant I killed?

Scrimshaw as a hobby no, but saying the word over and over yes. He had no memory of that place - or rather, refused to let that place have any memory of him. There there's always more to come.

Expect both culling and blame. I find myself in the throes of an unexpected spiritual crisis. They butchered pigs all afternoon until at last she worked up the courage to announce her engagement.

Of all the voices, the one most missing. Demand vs. aggregate, that kind of longing.

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