Perhaps not what you might expect in a poem. Graphic arts? Could happen. Coming into the silence of snow which others call space. Have you noticed, no lack of words for what you can't describe? Probably that's how recipes & the paring of wine have become so poetically complicated. So poetically complicit? Oh somebody, just hand me a haiku. Right now. A spoon, too, to stir something.
SLIDES: weston
ReplyDeleteShe thinks, as she rides her bike down the windy road above the
river in the prosperous commuter suburb, I am not sure where I want to go. Home, who will be there? Who will not? Strange men and women often visit her parents, especially her mother in the afternoon. Perhaps her mother will not be there, having gone "shopping" with no particular time to return.
But if I ride farther than my driveway, it will take me to the reservoir, which I cannot walk around or swim in, the fences warning people away from all the gates. And I am hungry now, and tired, so maybe I will go home.