Saturday, February 19, 2005

Hot light through the morning windows gave way to afternoon gray. Somehow in the terror and excitement of the past few days I neglected to accomplish anything. I am stunned by the heaps of dishes in the kitchen, the dearth of clean clothes for either of us, the animal hair accreting at the edges of everything. I wrote only one poem this week. But I remember a bizarre if entertaining dream from last night of a priapic Woody Allen making a film, and another of riding camels around, beautiful saddles, and another of a sweet hamster frolicking happily in the early morning light of some dream bedroom, on its little table, and how happy it made me to wake up and watch it, and then remembering--cats!, and the rest all scurrying to scoop up cat after cat before they could breakfast on the little guy. (Yes, I know about DancingHamster.) 12:42:24 PM    comment []

On the Way Back A car cuts around the curving darkness. In the back, a little girl leans her forehead on the window glass and smiles at the moon, the kind face pursuing her behind the fleeing trees. She thinks of the swimming pool she found in the woods that day--the vast forgotten box in the earth, dirty turquoise concrete with its puddle of slime at the deep end, tadpoles trapped in algae. She's a tissue, a silk adrift on moonlight, draping around the moon--that warm orange orb smooth as a globe--below her now as she floats on a current to a crack in the blackness. Her silken self eels through the fissure like a long veil in a breeze to a void of whitegold light, then curves forming on a gridded plane, coming up into hummocks and flattening. A ripple passes under. Far off--a snowy Shasta pink with dawn. The grid roils almost not at all, as worms invert soil in the course of centuries. 11:07:51 AM    comment []