Or maybe stepping foot on the train, we are meant to notice the girl to our right, her red hat, her brown eyes eclipsing the pall of methodical predictions of heat death—oh imminent end—in favor of her shoulder against yours, the driverless hours in which to ask her which of the poems in the book in her lap she loves best.
Saturday, September 21, 2013
The Last Question (with Tania P)
Perhaps while we can’t yet turn smoke and ash back into a tree, we can train impossibly shattered things to mend themselves: a crushed hope, a fractured trust – an anguish suspended in a dream.
Or maybe stepping foot on the train, we are meant to notice the girl to our right, her red hat, her brown eyes eclipsing the pall of methodical predictions of heat death—oh imminent end—in favor of her shoulder against yours, the driverless hours in which to ask her which of the poems in the book in her lap she loves best.
Or maybe stepping foot on the train, we are meant to notice the girl to our right, her red hat, her brown eyes eclipsing the pall of methodical predictions of heat death—oh imminent end—in favor of her shoulder against yours, the driverless hours in which to ask her which of the poems in the book in her lap she loves best.
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