Saturday, May 23, 2015


Someone says Hebrides, which reminds me of Hesperides and of that golden apple and of gusts, and I wonder if I’ll see it when I’m gone.

I wonder at lots of things. Whether the words are less important than the objects they persuade into being, whether
intense unhappiness requires intense happiness,

whether if left alone long enough air turns on itself, turns out        coming up to meet a new register –
maintenance, perhaps – an underwaternerving.

Whether one day I, too, will be like the wind.


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