I blame my brain for everything.
All God’s creatures, from the little bugs to the mighty whale, all of them are so – what’s the word? I spent the rest of the day searching for the correct word, but the best I came up with was “necessary”, and I don’t think it’s right.
Who I work for –
The department of who?
Division of what?
The purse-strings, the decisions
The happy weather, singular for this
While I hope you are
Fragment of a wish
There’s always time / surrounded by shallows:
expatriate falling down the stairs / breaking of bottles
we attracted these nincompoops
We had the bucket and filled it with water
Where we got the water in this drought is a secret
Then we took the trees and flowers from their secret place
Our touch was magical and of benefit
To see if we can attract birds
Crumbs from the table
What can be given
There are some things never spoken about
THAT TO WHICH WE ARE ENTITLED
The Philosophy of Consolation (Faithless)
“There has been no attempt to lift the lid on what has happened. This is not the truth.”
I thought of how a poem might be about either itself or its author or perhaps it could be about language, and concluded that each of those options was a path toward boredom and futility, and then I wondered why I was thinking about this, when on my left was the ocean and on my right was Li Min. Boethius wrote about man’s desire for that which gives pleasure, and I have been thinking about poetry and its confusing pleasures.