WHEN YOU REND THE FABRIC
She's steady, she's calm. There's isn't anything to
be done that would rattle her or change a plan. I
guess that's good, though it's the opposite of me.
Peripatetic, jumpy, nervous and not sedate. Which
is always to be worked on, a rather crummy trait.
As if, for me they've made active verbs; for her,
pauses and prepositions.
Right now, the sun is rising up over Carlisle Grove -
some ten men are hammering houses as the woods are
slowly brought down. A kid in an old Pontiac hotrod
is crawling the roadway - his red tank shimmering
as it shakes its loud noise along. I didn't even know
people did this stuff any more. Well, maybe out here
it's still game. Funny, that Pontiac was - a car name
and first an Indian chief, and then a City in Michigan.
If I was a murderer, I'd have hid out in these woods and
all would be cool. Me and the cabin alone - like the
Unibomber until his brother turned him in; like Thoreau,
sizing up the land for his claims at peace; like John Muir,
sick of the rest, and tired. As it is, all I do is stay in five
rooms somewhere, and dream it on - making a Kingdom
of my patter, a New World of my words and places.