and upon waking, why these interlocking & perplexing questions?
When did she stop wearing her red boots?
At what time of day does the horizon appear watery? Precisely.
Why do forests shape shift?
How does a poem know which word will come next?
Which tomato gets to keep the worm?
Why does conversation often come full circle, and precisely why do interlocking & perplexing questions resemble a cat?
It should not be disturbing, this reluctance to let sadness be within. I have often had the same desire to obliterate the past by mere will. Maybe it is given to some people easily, this brushing aside of hard edges. I seem to snag a bit of my fabric as I pass through a time which I cannot quite forget, in a dream, in a poem, in a conversation.
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