Saturday, May 2, 2009

350. FRAGMENTS

FRAGMENTS
How many times have I hidden things
away from the world, secreted, apart from
everything else? Like a list, found
much later, crumpled in a pocket of
some pants once worn. Always a surprise,
like seeing tents set up upon a lawn, where
they never were before.
-
I am listening to Billy Holiday, with one ear
lashed to a tree. 'Strange Fruit', and all it can
be - to hear again, and over again. I saw that
stringbean fellow, and his huddled Lady Day,
on some old Philadelphia doorstep of a house
where she used to stay. (Those days were
oh so long ago and, by now, even we have
managed to stray). Lady Day. Lady Day.
-
'Southern trees bear a strange fruit. Blood
on the leaves, and blood at the root.'

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