Sunday, September 11, 2011

The Balance Between Singing And Silence

Shards of blue glass in mud no less. As her poems diminished - a relative phrase to be sure - her letters grew denser, more passionate. What takes flight, what remains adorned. I don't care what you do so long as you have your reasons.

Holiday ambivalence, empty highways. The discarded rose vase we emptied as our drunken uncle passed by singing what ills would befall us by the light of the risible moon. I never knew Joe McCann. Nowadays, St. Paul would teach a course on creative epistolary and people would pay a premium.

We watched without speaking the shadow crawl from the ground, cross a bed of half-drenched goldenrod, and slink towards the unsuspecting village. Dusk, dawn, whatever. I woke up to the smell of burning maps. Art one way, prayer the other and then what.

Glittering as if to say stop and pay attention. We woke in the middle of the night and worked through difficult travel plans. Later, in a puddle near the driveway's end, a penny turned up. He moved his father's bones in anger, refusing to allow the old drunk to spend eternity with the family he had injured so.

But look, it happens sometimes. We are not happy unless we are chosen. It's got nothing to do with soap but with the balance between singing and silence. If you want to know about the forest, get a dog and walk there.

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