Friday, November 02, 2007

It’s the cantaloup

for sure—all the
other animals have
been locked up for
the season, served
decaffeinated tea & do-
nut holes, listening to
piped Berlioz—but we've
rung the paleontologist
just in case. Evenings
are like that. Forms
dismembered &
rearranged in a
different order, a
new light cast, things
picked up after several
decades absence, their
corpses pored, pawed
over. I’d never really
thought about it
before, but it’s the
obvious in Eliot that
gets me angry, “coming
over the Starnbergsee”
indeed, as if there
were some other
direction to arrive
from, light rain or not.

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