Wander

I will pin myself to the backs of their late legacies.

There are certain authors I've wanted to talk to with tears in my eyes--not because I'm overly sentimental (though I may perhaps be), but because such would be the nature of the conversation. The deepest of secrets, dark only like night blooming flowers or the pinched eye of anise stars. But every one of them has died before I had ever even heard their name. My dialogues hop on one leg

Stretching legs, dark knit like a bug's

This is something only yellow, orange lights can do

If I am lucky, I will have what some of them had; If I am diligent, I will attain what all of them did; and if I am unlucky, and this the more likely, I will not have what most of them also did not have.

The softest part of the enclosure is dirt, then hardwood, then iron. There is a wasteful amount of iron in that place. There is little between the very soft and the very hard in that place.

I like to think of eternity in the terms of turtles and Odradek and labyrinths and hidden places, and honey crystallizing in blue-black nostrils. It is somehow easier this way--like walking in someone's footsteps, footholes, when the snow is very deep. I only regret that I could not ask them where it was they were going, because, strange folk, they have left such wandering and winding paths...