Wednesday, July 9, 2008


the alarm sounds.
we faintly hear crooning
a relic of a dream, perhaps? or a memory?
we are
still swimming
inside (inside, always and again inside)
this massive confusion
this watery globe

so we foist ourselves upon the day
we brush our grainy teeth
until they gleam
(this is America)
though still the sleep is stuck in the corners of the eyes
the sun,
this miracle? or tragedy? of fire
cuts into us, and cleaves us from the tuggings of somnolence
coaxes us into the web
(we breathe it in, out)
we coexist
with the raking of the past over us,
just as
with the swoon of music, mesmer, cloud, transparent wings.

we make toast.
we converse.
we conduct ourselves.
or so we believe.

Impending catastrophes aside --
(and though they lurk so heavy,
they evaporate as quickly as the flit of a tiny wing)
we are
still swimming
inside (always and again, inside)

and the crooning
still audible, wafts in

july 9, 08

Sunday, July 6, 2008


by Jane Kenyon

I got out of bed
on two strong legs.
It might have been
otherwise. I ate
cereal, sweet
milk, ripe, flawless
peach. It might
have been otherwise.
I took the dog uphill
to the birch wood.
All morning I did
the work I love.

At noon I lay down
with my mate. It might
have been otherwise.
We ate dinner together
at a table with silver
candlesticks. It might
have been otherwise.
I slept in a bed
in a room with paintings
on the walls, and
planned another day
just like this day.
But one day, I know,
it will be otherwise.