Yesterday you were turning bolts, building a bed for your lover to sleep in, plying pressboard into roses, into oak trees, into the tree house where Penelope and Odysseus, I'm sure, laid their heads between blackberry thickets and dusty silver olive leaves.
A black squirrel shocked me awake just now. It stood upright. You don't know what precariousness feels like until you stand on two feet.
There was nothing more hopeless somehow then a bottle dropped on the street. Laboriously filled with air (into bottle shape) and then water (into water shape), then abandoned with a thunk and a chug. A bottle filled now half with air and a spreading pool of water flattened into two dimensions, left to evaporate, shapeless now, into pools of air.
Penelope and Odysseus, they weren't afraid for their lives, and neither will you be when you hold that girl close in the indentation you pressed out especially for her. You will be satisfied and warm now with the hole that you have made, and then filled.
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Furtively poetical. Consumed with everything.
2 comments:
O god, yes. More please!
and you shall have it!
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