Thursday, July 12, 2012

To a Person or perhaps a Book

You were alive at all the right moments, so that form was a kind of gambit, a bit of sculpture passed back and forth between friends.

If I place myself near you, imagined, I take for myself a kind of liberty. I impose myself in stating what I am inclined to imagine as real, or representative. I write poems like a flower dropping heavily on another flower, or the skid of plastic garbage cans. One night I sat unsure whether to go out and called myself a saint for the facts of the time in considering indecision.

Good for life. Good for words for life like raspberry sherbet.

     fortune/misfortune, a tower a mess - a volume shimmers into view
     you take it as a choice when you have other choices to move on to

Representative. It sounds like work. It is work for the mind and the tongue. It's a word that boasts such promise to start, but by the end I'm all worn out with where to stick it. I mean, so that I or another might know how to retrieve it. That sort of legacy, or sharing.

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