First, I was wrong. Tuesday was the 18th, and
Wednesday was the 19th. My “accounts” are
reckoned incorrect. Fire the “proclaimer”;
I can’t even keep my days straight.
Second, I admit that I dragged myself out of bed
at 11 a.m., after a long dream that ended
with me lighting a bunny on fire. So the day began.
Over so soon! Pad Thai, coffee, all of it: lunch,
dinner, sex, love (not in that order), the whole
movement of a day toward its designated midnight.
Series of conversations, events, exchanges, and
negotiations. Hedging. Gestures and sighs. Then
a kind of gentle collapse, a surrender to time.
A surrender to whatever dreams or rabbits
will pursue me on the other side.
Each to its own end. I look forward to the coming
apocalypse. So easy to say when you don’t
believe it (not even the Maya
believed it). So bring it on;
and yet, it’s the end of something…
the beginning of something else.
Random lines from my bookshelf:
“Wisteria is, first: a hardy, deciduous, capable-of-earnest-grasping shrub which bears small flowers. After that, it can be pressed (violently if you will) into an attar of its former self.”
— Lucie Brock-Broido, from an interview in which she discusses her poem, “Extreme Wisteria” (Poetry 12/2012)