Maybe a circle of white wind plucks wild hyacinths for your hair, and no one hears you blossoming fresh with love’s scent. Only a young moon flowing like a silver well over sky mountains meets your gaze.
Saturday, September 22, 2012
Thursday, September 13, 2012
Perhaps you shouldn’t be frightened to display a disciplined self-indulgence as you make an old idea valuable by placing it in an exquisite frame. Is it finished? What mistakes did you make last time? You are an engineer of bricks, discarded axioms, simple subtraction, and slow preparation. Breathe more deeply as you carry on.
Or maybe you are hesitant to complete the evidence, admitting that each piece is a rough simulacrum of a music you once heard when the buds of the white birches wore red as if paintbrush tips dipped in a river that bled, held above you in that certainty of blue that recalls the inside of someone's lips close to the gum; if you were to examine the tissue, you might consider unfinished things that require a cupping of one's hand, a modest but slightly lavish signature.