I am always in too big a hurry to remember. To recollect, to retell. I try to see through the window of the past, to look beyond it to now. But I am caught up in the rush of images that come together like crowds stampeding together in willing clots to celebrate the meaningless. Such an egotist am I to bray that the Universe is insufficient and ill-tempered toward those with pure intent and sterling recollection. The sad glass always becomes a mirror. All is trampled.
We are all running through one another - temporary borderlines of molecules destined for reassembly. Is anything left of Achilles’ dancing on the oars? Obviously. And the dark flower of the chocolate awkward smile that bloomed neath the little girl’s nose I saw yesterday? As much as Odysseus or Athena in her own way. The broken knife blades in the rain atop the sewer lid, seeming to have snapped in the battle to welcome the half raspberry making its way in a gutter trickle to the abyss like a stuttering heart.
Some things are... [ Continued ]