NOW IS THE THINE
My kettle drum fries and chips, your
over-cooked worms and frijoles, everything
together in our big mashed pot. I say, 'Let's
just keep it brewing, let it stew all day long.'
You laugh it off, and say 'Can't be done, we'll
die of thirst before morning.' Egads, what a
juggernaut we've made. Every circumstance
of this life conspires now against us. I love
the flowers you leave in the morning.
-
I am a volunteer in this army of servitude, the
long and languid wasting towards a God in absence.
She shows me pictures of her room; I love them too.
As well, as much, as anything else - for I am happy
too. Wherever I will be going, I will be leaving now.
-
I love the flowers you leave in the morning :
there's nothing else like them in the world. I look
for Odilon Redon in my historic mind : the flowers
he painted were often haunting, with colors, it seemed,
meant to explode, or be exploded together. Ah yes,
my haunting sadness now; ah, yes.
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