The house introduces blind views. The harbor plays the jetty. No shadow of a hero. Nothing that could be called a fountain. True, I begin to see exceptions, categories tossed. A boat carried over the water without visible means. When a concept is based on arbitrary definitions, is it wrong to consider it arbitrary? How often have I noted varieties of timber converging on the river, the wall. How often have I been scattered with the leaves pitched from clogged gutters. The boatman has tied the rope. A flock of pigeons alights by the house. A woman flings grain outside the mother tongue. Something a little angular about her. Unable to embody security and plenty. A matter of dialect. A ring tossed for exchange and recognition. The father openly corpulent. Fruit peels and offal on the steps of the house. The door is shut. Is of black oak. Is strongly made like a belief. A statement about relations, between the universe and rigid rods. You knock and raise your hat to the strange goings-on. The woman is given (part of her labor) to fading. Oatmeal cakes, such as memories. Tasted one after another like praise from a loved one, not quite knowing what for. And why the umbrellas? the steps on the stairs? I myself maintain a rough ecology of day and dream. Sleep offering strategies of dissolution. |