Sunday, April 7, 2013

A Certain Rose

Some morning I cannot find them, the twenty sentences. The stars are in the sky. In the fall, all the apples trees will grow apples. What is wrong with me?

What I remember of hearing about Kenya was the unexpected clarity of the air. Fathers don't always know best and often aren't given permission to be hungry. Well, that's six. I like the shape of things: dogs, cardinals, pine trees, the moon.

In love, one assumes a learning posture. Speech patterns shift and everything - even the mail - becomes an opportunity to know again the sacred. One can trust and even lean on the verb "to melt," so long as they understand it literally. How rich she is, and how variegated!

Often I understand lies only after I see what I've said. Please disregard any stories about my mother! It's true that I digress. But what does one expect from the only public member of the school of parenthetical afterthought?

Other patterns shift too: you ask for a certain favor - a certain rose, say - and they won't do it and you wonder: why and will anyone ever? In the world of form, never is a distinct possibility. But when I ask you are there and you give whatever is asked. Here, for example, is the twentieth sentence.

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